re-vHz&ifif/ 

99 


MONK    AND    KNIGHT 


MONK   AND    KNIGHT 


AN 


f tetorical  ^tuD?  in  fiction 

/ 

BY 

FRANK  W.   GUNSAULUS 

FIFTH  EDITION 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1902     r  c  I  Xl 


COPYRIGHT, 
BY  A.  C.  MCCLURG  AND  Co. 

A.  L>.  1891. 


NOTE. 

TT  is  proper  to  say  that  the  large  number  of  well- 
known  sayings,  letters,  and  documents  which  occur 
in  this  study  of  the  early  half  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
appear  in  those  translations  with  which,  as  the  Author 
is  led  to  believe,  the  general  reader  is  most  familiar. 
So  far  as  he  knows,  each  of  these  has  taken  its  place 
as  a  part  of  literature  or  history.  He  desires  to  acknowl- 
edge with  gratitude  many  kindnesses  characteristic  of  the 
late  Ferdinand  Denis,  Administrator  of  the  Bibliotheque 
Sainte  Genevieve,  to  whom  it  was  a  joy  even  to  apply 
for  copies  of  unique  historical  manuscripts. 


PLYMOUTH  CHURCH  STUDY, 
CHICAGO. 


"Kpv<f>ic  TcXetto?  eXTTi 


CONTENTS. 


VOLUME  I. 


PROEM.  — THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE 


PAGE 
9 


CHAPTER 

I.   ENTERTAINING  ANGELS  UNAWARES     .    .  28 

II.  STRANGERS  AND  FELLOW-CITIZENS      .    .  37 

III.  A  RECOGNIZED  GUEST 46 

IV.  AT  AN  ENGLISH  ABBEY 54 

V.  UNPLEASANT  VISITORS 65 

VI.  A  NOVICE  AND  FUGITIVE 80 

VII.  A  FRENCH  CHATEAU "...  88 

VIII.   THE  KING  UNDER  GOVERNANCE  ....  97 

IX.  WITCHES  AND  KNIGHTS 108 

X.  A  YOUNG  SCHOLAR  AND  A  YOUNG  KING  121 

XI.  THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH    .     .    .     .  131 

XII.  THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH    ....  141 

XIII.  FADING  FACTS  AND  LIVING  DREAMS    .    .  148 

XIV.  A  VISITOR  AT  GLASTONBURY 161 

XV.  A  SHAKING  FAITH      ........  177 

XVI.    AT    LUTTERWORTH    AGAIN     ......  1 86 

XVII.  A  WALDENSIAN  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE     .  193 

XVIII.   MAIDEN  AND  NOVICE 201 

XIX.   HOLY  COMMUNION 212 

XX.   MARIGNANO 224 

XXI.   POPE,  KING,  AND  KNIGHT 236 

XXII.   UNRENEWED  FRANCE 245 


4  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  THE  WHITE  PEAK  AMID  DARK  CLOUDS  .  250 

XXIV.  EASTER  AT  GLASTONBURY 261 

XXV.   THE  GROWING  PROBLEM 269 

XXVI.  AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS 278 

XXVII.   AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK 293 

XXVIII.  AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK 304 

XXIX.  VIAN  THE  PYTHAGOREAN 311 

XXX.  A  CALL  UPON  THE  CARDINAL     ....  327 

XXXI.  THE  FIELD  OF  THE  CLOTH  OF  GOLD  .    .  333 

XXXII.  JEALOUSY  AND  MAGNIFICENCE    ....  342 

XXXIII.  LOVE  AND  LEARNING 349 

XXXIV.  AN  UNHORSED  KNIGHT 360 


VOLUME  II. 

I.  Two  LETTERS 7 

II.  GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  Oi   WCRMS  ....  17 

III.  A  VICTORY  AND  A  DEFEAT 30 

IV.  A  VIRTUOSO'S  STATESMANSHIP    ....  42 

V.    "AUREUS    LlBELLUS" 48 

VI.  THE  ETERNAL  CITY 54 

VII.  A  NEW  POPE 65 

VIII.  THE  COURT  AND  THE  VISION      ....  75 

IX.   PYTHAGOREANISM  AT  SIR  THOMAS  MORE'S  85 

X.  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  BAYARD 94 

XL  PAVIA  .     .              99 

XII.   LA  TORRE 107 

XIII.  A  HEART'S  DISCONTENT 116 

XIV.  SPIRITUAL  ENVIRONMENTS 123 

XV.  A  BELEAGUERED  CASTLE 132 

XVI.  A  DISCARDED  FAVORITE 142 

XVII.  THE  ZEAL  OF  HERESY  . 154 

XVIII.  SERVANT  OF  THE  HOLY  CHURCH  .  .  .  161 

XIX.  THICKENING  CLOUDS 166 

XX.  AMI  AND  THE  DEATH  OF  BERQUIN  .  .  173 

XXI.   ANOTHER  SERVANT  OF  THE  HOLY  CHURCH  182 


CONTENTS. 


5 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.   To  THE  MOUNTAINS 186 

XXIII.  VIAN  AND  SALMANI     .......  196 

XXIV.  OLD  EXPERIENCES  IN  NEW  FORMS  .     .  204 
XXV.  VISIONS  AND  REALITIES 212 

XXVI.   CONFUSED  CURRENTS 226 

XXVII.   AMI  AND  VIAN 233 

XXVIII.  CASPAR'S  WOUNDED  GUEST     ....  243 

XXIX.   A  GOLDEN  DAY 251 

XXX.   "UBi  PAPA,  UBI  ROMA" 257 

XXXI.  STEPS  ORDERED  AMID  CONFUSION     .     .  268 

XXXII.   FAINT  YET  PURSUING 275 

XXXIII.  THE  EMPEROR'S  SERVANT 283 

XXXIV.  WANDERINGS  OF  SOUL     .     .     .     .     .    .  295 

XXXV.   AT  COURT  AGAIN 309 

XXXVI.   AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING 319 

XXXVII.   DELIVERANCE  AND  LOVE 327 

XXXVIII.   THE  END 339 


MONK    AND    KNIGHT 

VOLUME  I. 


MONK   AND   KNIGHT. 


PROEM. 

THE   MORNING   HOUR   IN   EUROPE. 

Other  futures  stir  the  world's  great  heart ; 

Europe  has  come  to  her  majority, 

And  enters  on  the  vast  inheritance 

Won  from  the  tombs  of  mighty  ancestors,  — 

The  seeds,  the  gold,  the  gems,  the  silent  harps 

That  lay  deep  buried  with  the  memories 

Of  old  renown. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

*"  I  ^HE  Renaissance  was  a  reformation  of  the  European 
X  intellect ;  the  Reformation  was  a  renaissance  of  the 
European  conscience.  Both  movements  were  returns  to 
the  past :  the  intellect  found  deliverance  from  scholas- 
ticism in  its  study  of  Greece  and  Rome ;  the  conscience 
felt  the  chains  of  ecclesiasticism  disappear  as  once  more 
it  saw  the  open  gospel  of  the  Christ.  Each  movement 
was  also  a  distinctly  marked  step  into  the  future,  because, 
in  each,  the  human  soul  had  rediscovered  itself,  and  read- 
ily bounded  forward  with  a  persuasion  that  to  it  alone 
belonged  the  infinite  time. 


IO  ?ONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

To  those,  however,  to  whom  institutions  and  traditions 
are  more  sacred  than  the  soul,  it  must  always  appear  that 
the  reins  of  the  future  were  held,  in  the  earlier  decades 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  by  four  boys,  each  of  whom 
looked  forth  with  vivid  expectations  into  manhood.  He 
who  was  to  rule  the  Church  as  Leo  X.  had  been  Cardi- 
nal since  he  was  thirteen;  Henry  VIII.  succeeded  to 
the  fortunes  of  the  Tudor  dynasty  in  1509,  at  the  age 
of  eighteen;  six  years  later,  Francis  I.,  the  incarnation 
of  strong  ambitions  and  weak  convictions,  was  sovereign  of 
France  at  the  age  of  twenty ;  and,  in  1519,3!  the  same 
age,  Charles  V.  of  Spain  was  chosen  to  a  crown  unsur- 
passed in  importance,  by  the  extent  and  richness  of  its 
dominion,  since  the  days  of  Charlemagne. 

These  men  will  interest  us,  for  the  most  part,  only  as 
the  less  conspicuous  currents  of  human  life,  which  less 
illustrious  mortals  represent,  rushing  against  them,  are 
temporarily  deflected  in  their  movements,  or  made  to 
bear  the  shadow  of  immense  personal  influences  upon 
their  moving  surfaces.  Greater  than  all  of  them  was 
the  incoming  tide,  which  was  to  make  such  new  con- 
figurations in  the  old  shores,  and  strew  them  so  luxu- 
riantly with  seaweed,  wreck,  and  pearls. 

There  is  much  to  interest  the  thinker  when  the  frag- 
ments of  some  fine  old  mediaeval  ship  are  lifted  upon  the 
sands.  Many  hands  lent  their  skill  to  its  creation,  and 
many  human  hearts  fastened  their  hopes  and  aspira- 
tions to  its  strength.  Much  of  the  highest  faith  which 
man  knew  was  enshrined  in  its  hard  tissues,  and  much  of 
human  longing  went  out  with  the  moment  of  its  dedica- 
tion to  the  unknown  sea.  If  it  be  a  creed  which  once 
promised  a  vision  of  some  far-away  shore,  or  an  institution 
which  held  the  desire  of  man  from  the  deeps,  there  will 
be  voices  only  to  wail  and  eyes  only  to  weep,  as  the  wave 
rolls  back.  It  must  not  astonish,  if  often,  when  some 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  u 

wave  more  vast  than  the  rest,  and  flashing  with  a  fuller 
splendor,  shall  have  thrown  far  to  land  a  single  pearl, 
stolen  in  its  leaping  energy  from  some  unsuspected  depth, 
—  a  pearl  which  has  both  Orient  and  Occident  hidden  in 
its  radiant  completeness,  —  a  pearl  which  shall  remind  the 

soul  of  the  richness  of  the  concealed  realms  of  life, 

there  shall  be  no  eye  to  perceive  its  glory,  or  no  heart 
brave  enough  to  seize  it,  before  it  shall  be  covered  with 
the  sea-weed  and  the  slime.  The  very  brilliance  of  the 
movement  known  as  the  Renaissance  is  often  to  be  seen 
hard  by  the  darkness  which  had  grown  old  and  shadowy ; 
and  popes  and  kings,  so  much  the  conservators  and 
guardians  of  institutions,  so  little  the  inspirers  and  leaders 
of  men,  must  be  expected  to  impersonate  the  obedient 
and  serviceable  midnight  rather  than  the  imperious,  rest- 
less morning. 

At  the  earliest  date  mentioned  in  connection  with 
these,  who  were  the  visible  rulers  of  sixteenth-century 
Christendom,  duly  honored  and  enthroned,  what  is  called 
the  Renaissance  had  advanced,  even  in  France,  England, 
and  Germany,  to  something  like  a  sure  promise  of  vic- 
tory ;  and  that  great  band,  separated  by  seas  and  moun- 
tains, but  undivided  and  indivisible  in  spirit  and  in  hope, 
called  the  "  Reformers  before  the  Reformation,"  had  cre- 
ated an  atmosphere  so  resonant  and  withal  so  true  that 
the  blows  of  Martin  Luther  had  promise  of  being  heard 
from  echoing  cathedral  doors. 

It  is  the  most  mischievous  of  errors  —  I  had  almost 
said  the  most  perilous  of  habits  —  for  historians  to  seek 
to  separate  the  intellectual  from  the  spiritual  elements 
which  coexist  within  that  vast  and  chaotic  solution  out 
of  which  ultimately  came  the  order  and  power  of  modern 
life.  Columbus  the  Spanish  discoverer,  is  Columbus  the 
religionist,  who  writes  in  his  log-book  the  words,  "  In  the 
name  of  Jesus."  Even  the  monk  is  the  copyist  of 
classics  j  and  the  thunder  of  Savonarola,  who  seemed  to 


1 2  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

disdain  the  Renaissance  in  his  effort  at  reformation, 
breaks  the  bonds  which  linger  to  fetter  the  brain  of 
Florence.  The  human  soul  is  a  unit.  Faith,  in  all 
comprehensive  accounts  of  it,  is  the  act  of  the  whole 
spirit,  —  intellect,  sensibilities,  will.  The  advance  of  the 
mental  faculties  meant  perhaps  less  belief,  but  certainly 
more  faith,  for  the  deepening  of  man's  religious  life. 
The  purification  and  development  of  true  faith  meant 
perhaps  a  less  number  of  theories,  but  certainly  a  larger 
knowledge  for  man's  intellectual  life. 

The  Renaissance,  as  it  flowered  into  the  Reformation, 
was  a  new  birth  of  the  whole  man.  It  was  an  evolution  ; 
it  was  a  revolution,  —  a  revolution  inside  an  evolution. 
It  was  an  orderly  movement ;  it  was  a  disorderly  move- 
ment, —  the  disorder  was  walled  in,  and  guarded  by 
order.  Cosmos  comprehended  chaos,  and  at  length 
ruled  it  with  a  supreme  gentleness.  Delayed  evolution 
always  makes  revolution ;  and  less  of  storm  was  unavoid- 
able, for  so  long  the  calm  had  been  a  crime. 

"  Down  came  the  storm.     In  ruins  fell 

The  worn-out  world  we  knew. 
It  passed,  — that  elemental  swell,  — 
Again  appeared  the  blue." 

When  Henry  VIII.  advanced  to  the  English  throne, 
and  the  young  Francis,  Due  d'Angouleme,  was  playing 
the  part  of  a  sportive  boy,  in  1509,  the  currents  of  the 
Renaissance  had  gathered  strength,  as  they  flowed,  and 
England  and  France  had  begun  to  feel  the  well-nigh 
omnipotent  impulse.  The  world  had  been  growing 
larger  as  the  human  soul  had  been  quickened  into  new 
life  and  hope.  For  two  hundred  years  the  world  had 
possessed  Gioja's  compass.  The  telescope  had  been 
bringing  the  glowing  secrets  of  immensity  into  the  human 
brain  for  more  than  two  and  one- half  centuries.  Paper 
and  gunpowder  had  anticipated  the  invention  of  the 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  13 

printing-press,  in  1438,  by  more  than  two  hundred  years. 
Columbus  had  vied  with  Copernicus  in  quoting  from 
Aristotle  and  Philolaus,  until  ecclesiasticism  had  grown 
indignant,  and  stupid  royalty  had  smiled.  The  sailors 
of  Portugal  had  been  as  bold  in  the  East  and  in  the  West 
as  had  the  thinkers  at  Florence  and  the  artists  of  Rome 
in  their  treatment  of  ideas.  Italy  had  felt  the  tread  of 
Greek  scholars  who  fled  from  Constantinople  to  her 
quiet  shores  as  certainly  as  had  that  city  of  the  East  felt 
the  inroads  of  the  victorious  Turks.  The  scholar  had 
walked  the  streets  of  Florence,  since  the  Council  of  1438 
between  the  Greek  and  Latin  Churches,  with  the  freedom 
with  which,  for  centuries  before  the  opening  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  the  Roman  soldier  paced  the  streets  of  Jerusa- 
lem. In  1470  Virgil  was  printed,  to  be  followed,  in  less 
than  a  generation,  by  Homer  and  Aristotle.  In  1482 
Plato  spoke  to  Italy  in  the  Latin  tongue,  through  the 
translations  of  Ficino ;  and  for  years  a  lamp  had  burned 
before  his  bust  in  the  palace  of  the  Medici.  WThile  the 
flesh  of  Savonarola  was  burning,  his  beloved  city  had 
been  reading  the  explanation  of  the  harmony  between 
Moses,  the  lawgiver  of  Israel,  and  Plato,  the  philosopher 
of  Greece,  from  the  pen  of  Mirandola.  For  a  century  a 
shipload  of  gems  from  India,  relics  from  Judaea,  arms 
from  Persia,  or  many-colored  dyes  from  Tyre  or  Phoenicia 
had  been  held  to  be  incomparably  poor,  by  the  side  of 
a  galley  in  whose  freight  might  be  found  the  manuscript 
of  an  oration  of  Cicero  or  that  of  a  play  of  ^Eschylus. 
Barlaam,  fresh  from  ecclesiastical  councils,  had  opened 
the  poetry  of  Greece  to  the  student  of  the  classics. 
Petrarch  had  sung  the  delicate  joys  of  the  most  tender 
of  Italian  poets ;  and  the  school  of  Chrysolaus  had  for  a 
hundred  years  been  duly  celebrated.  Bessarion  had 
made  the  air  about  him  Athenian  in  its  quality ;  and  the 
monasteries  had  been  regarded  for  so  long  as  the  treasure- 
houses  of  manuscripts,  that  the  hidden  depravity  of  their 


14  MOXA'  AXD    KX1GHT. 

clergy  had  been  almost  forgotten.  Even  in  Germany, 
Politian,  the  Italian  poet,  had  made  a  new  career  for  him- 
self, in  John  Reuchlin,  theologian  and  humanist.  Latin 
poets  at  Erfurt  had  seconded  the  impulse  generated  by  the 
Elector  Frederic,  who  had  founded  the  University  of 
Wittenberg.  The  universities  of  Paris  and  Cologne  had 
sought  to  surpass  Florence  and  Venice,  in  offering  hospi- 
tality to  penniless  Greek  scholars  and  wandering  pedants, 
who  often  spoke  and  wrote  abominable  Latin. 

The  complete  sway  of  the  Renaissance  had,  however, 
its  most  brilliant  testimony  in  Italy.  Angelo  had  walked 
through  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo,  which  were  full  of  classic 
art  in  the  forms  of  figures  and  statues,  studying  the  an- 
tique ;  and  in  the  evenings  he  had  talked  with  Landino 
or  Pulci  about  the  myths  of  classic  times.  He  had  read 
Dante  in  the  same  palace  in  which  he  learned  Platonism  ; 
and  he  was  now  dreaming  of  the  glory  of  the  Sistine  ceiling. 
It  was  an  atmosphere  in  which  a  Nicholas  V.  could  out- 
wardly and  proudly  aid  a  Theodore  Gaza  and  John 
Argyrolos  in  the  attempt  to  interest  Europe  in  the  Iliad 
and  Odyssey.  Boccaccio's  prose  translation  of  Homer 
was  in  the  hands  of  scholars  like  Erasmus,  while  cer- 
tain of  the  priests  of  the  Church  labored  to  convince 
him  that  the  souls  of  brutes  and  men  were  the  same, 
and  quoted  Pliny  as  authority.  While  Rienzi  had  been 
storming  the  castle  of  an  extortionate  nobility,  Dante  was 
uttering  his  devotion  to  Virgil,  in  the  greatest  of  Italian 
poems. 

The  age  of  libraries  and  collectors,  of  the  Vatican  and 
the  Medicean,  of  Bracciolini  and  Aurispa,  had  come. 
The  era  of  critics  and  grammarians  had  succeeded  the 
era  of  feudal  lords  and  gay  knights.  The  lost  decades 
of  Livy  were  mourned  over,  as  the  world  never  had 
mourned  over  the  death  of  Peter  the  Hermit. 

The  new  crusader,  if  he  looked  toward  the  East  at  all, 
had  sought  to  recover  the  poems  of  Sappho,  rather  than 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  15 

to  scale  the  walls  of  Jerusalem.  Art  had  yielded  to  the 
revival.  Praxiteles  from  afar  had  given  a  new  edge  to 
the  chisel  of  Italian  sculpture,  and  classic  stories  and  the 
classic  spirit  had  broken  the  fetters  in  which  the  Church 
had  bound  the  genius  of  the  immediate  predecessors  of 
Da  Vinci  and  Raphael.  It  was  an  hour  when,  through 
the  revival  of  learning,  Henry  VIII.  was  able  to  hear  in 
his  land,  in  strange  renewal,  Roger  Bacon's  prophecy 
of  the  philosophy  of  Lord  Verulam  ;  when  in  France  the 
young  duke  soon  to  be  Francis  I.  might  have  heard,  over 
the  noise  of  the  proposed  crusades,  the  voice  of  Abelard 
breaking  in  upon  his  wooing  of  Eloise,  with  protests 
against  the  confusion  of  word-mongering  with  philosophy ; 
when  in  Italy  even  the  ears  of  Leo  X.  were  attentive  to 
words,  now  aged  enough,  which  had  recorded  the  intel- 
lectual self-respect  of  the  Fratricelli.  That  mighty  tri- 
umvirate —  Dante,  Savonarola,  Angelo,  each  one  of 
whom  has  been  called  the  prophet  of  the  Reformation : 
the  first,  a  reformer  and  artist  in  poetic  words;  the 
second,  a  poet  and  artist  in  reforming  deeds ;  the  third, 
a  reformer  and  poet  in  art  —  marks  an  era  in  Italy,  in 
which  the  mind  of  man  acknowledged  the  subtle  inter- 
penetration  of  Orient  and  Occident. 

The  West  had  been  touched  by  the  East  in  literature 
and  philosophy.  The  greater  West  had  been  discovered 
by  a  West  which  had  already  become  Eastern.  The 
geography  of  the  earth  was  changing  with  the  geography 
of  the  mind  of  man.  There  was  the  printing-press, 
which,  from  the  day  of  Gutenberg,  had  made  intelligence 
independent  of  all  localities.  Man  had  come  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  his  large  world  relations,  and  the  era  of 
questioning  all  traditions  and  boundaries  was  fairly 
inaugurated. 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  this  new  life  from  entering 
quite  as  deeply  into  the  brain  and  heart  of  England 
and  France.  For  almost  a  generation  the  silence  of  the 


1 6  MOXK  AXD  KNIGHT. 

solemn  cloisters  of  Westminster  had  been  disturbed  by 
the  creaking  of  Caxton's  press;  and  the  monks  of  St. 
Albans  had  mingled  their  muttered  prayers  with  the  more 
intelligible  sounds  of  the  busy  pressman,  comprehending 
little  how  mighty  a  power  that  printing-press  would  be- 
come in  the  demolition  of  Romish  rites.  While  Niccolo 
de  Niccoli  was  gathering  the  volumes  of  Boccaccio  into 
their  new  wooden  cases  in  the  convent  of  San  Spirito, 
another  scholar  was  beholding  that  elegant  copy  of  Livy 
in  French,  —  a  volume  of  which  the  good  Duke  Hum- 
phrey was  the  glad  recipient,  —  a  superb  example,  withal, 
from  that  collection  of  nearly  nine  hundred  gorgeously 
bound  volumes  which  the  enthusiastic  bibliophile  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  had  obtained  from  Charles  V.  of 
France.  No  longer  did  every  scholarly  chronicler  write, 
as  did  the  Venerable  Bede  in  commemoration  of  the 
chastity  of  Etheldreda,  — 

"  Let  Maro  wars  in  loftier  numbers  sing ; 
I  sing  the  praises  of  our  heavenly  king. 
Chaste  is  my  verse,  nor  Helen's  rape  I  write : 
Light  tales  like  these  but  prove  the  mind  as  light." 

On  the  other  hand,  for  two  centuries  many  of  the  priests 
had  been  ambitious  to  exhibit  a  classical  style  in  speech, 
and  some  of  the  affectations  which  the  Renaissance  begat 
in  the  abbeys  were  ludicrous  indeed.  While,  in  Italy, 
Angelo  was  proclaiming  the  Torso  Belvedere  as  his  true 
master,  John  Colet  was  bringing  into  his  own  England 
those  lectures  to  be  delivered  at  the  University  of  Oxford, 
in  which  "  the  new  learning  "  was  to  find  its  first  public 
alliance  with  the  Bible.  When  Alberto  Piowas  supplying 
Aldus  with  the  funds  with  which  he  obtained  the  machin- 
ery known  as  the  Aldine  press,  Linacre  and  Grocyn  were 
under  the  tuition  of  Politian  and  Chalcondyles ;  and  in 
1491  Oxford  had  known  how  earnestly  they  had  studied 
in  the  Platonic  academy.  As  Columbus  heard  from  the 
"  Pinta  "  the  cry,  "  Land  ahead  !  "  Thomas  More  was  com- 


THE  MORNING   HOUR   IN  EUROPE.  1 7 

ing  under  their  influence  as  teachers  of  "  the  new  learning." 
"  Greece  had  crossed  the  Alps,"  when  Reuchlin  had  in  his 
hand  the  translation  of  Thucydides  \  Greece  had  crossed 
the  channel  when  Erasmus  had  perceived  the  possibilities 
of  the  career  of  Henry  VIIL,  when  the  scholar  saw  him, 
at  nine  years  of  age,  at  the  court  of  Henry  VII.  . 

A  long  ancestry  preceded  Archbishop  Warham  and 
William  Latimer,  one  of  whom  was  furnishing  Erasmus 
with  beer  at  Oxford,  the  other  of  whom  was  so  soon  to 
popularize  his  influence  at  Cambridge.  Alcuin,  at  York, 
learning  what  to  obtain  abroad  to  enrich  the  libraries  of 
kings,  and  walking  in  the  shade  of  Egbert,  who  had  ran- 
sacked Rome  for  treasures ;  John  of  Bruges,  who  was  a 
bibliomaniac  with  the  most  omnivorous  appetite  ;  Thomas 
Cobham,  who  had  dreamed  of  a  great  library  at  Oxford 
in  1317;  Bishop  Carpenter  of  Exeter,  who  added  books 
to  the  relics  which  slumbered  in  the  charnel-house; 
William  Taunton,  who  succeeded  that  Amator  Librorum  ; 
John  Taunton,  at  Glastonbury ;  Peter  of  Blois,  and  the 
thousand  unknown  book-lovers  who  helped  to  copy  and 
collate,  to  steal  and  buy  the  fragments  of  the  litera- 
ture of  the  past,  —  all  of  them  spoke  in  the  dawn  of  a 
new  day,  with  a  clear  voice  and  rejoicing  tones.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  conspire,  for  a  combination  of  the  ener- 
gies which  had  awakened  Italy,  around  the  throne  which 
was  soon  to  be  occupied  by  a  new  king.  That  combina- 
tion had  been  making,  from  the  moment  of  Roger  Bacon's 
utterance  until  the  hour  when,  in  1498,  the  eager  Lord 
Mountjoy  had  brought  Erasmus  to  England. 

Smaller  by  far  was  the  influence  of  the  Renaissance 
in  the  land  soon  to  be  ruled  by  Francis  I;  yet  by 
1515  the  sky  of  France  was  full  of  morning  light.  The 
scholastic  philosophy  which  had  made  theology  so  aim- 
less and  so  heavy,  had  felt  a  penetrating  gleam  strike  its 
dolorous  fog.  The  University  of  Paris  was  aware  that  a 
fresh  radiance  was  stealing  over  the  sky.  Some  of  the 

VOL.  I.  —  2. 


1 8  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Greek  mercenaries  employ -d  by  Louis  XII. — with  one 
of  whom  we  shall  become  acquainted  in  this  study  — 
had  come  with  the  power  of  the  future  wrapped  up  with 
their  memories  of  the  past ;  and  often  in  the  clothes  of 
some  exiled  child  of  Athens  could  be  found  a  copy  of  a 
page  from  some  one  of  the  classics.  Gregory  of  Tiferno 
was  trying  to  teach  Greek  and  rhetoric  in  Paris  when 
Felelfo  was  commenting  on  Dante  at  Milan.  Basselin, 
Villon,  and  Alan  Chartier  were  poets  whose  lays  were  com- 
pelled to  mingle  with  humorous  quotations  from  Homer 
and  Plautus,  brought  thither  by  exiles  and  wanderers  ; 
and  the  scholars  in  the  Church  speedily  saw,  in  spite  of 
the  darkness  of  the  Sorbonne,  that  some  reconciliation 
must  ultimately  be  made  between  letters  and  belief. 
Learning  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  Holy  Church ; 
and  the  associates  of  the  new  king  were  soon  bound  at 
least  to  affect  Greek  art,  Roman  literature,  and  the  soci- 
ety of  printers  such  as  the  Estiennes,  and  scholars  such 
as  Louis  de  Berquin  and  Lefcvre.  The  air  was  balmy 
with  the  fragrant  dawn,  though  the  Church  and  the 
throne  were  asleep. 

This  mighty  revolution  in  the  thought  of  humanity, 
quickening  the  mind  to  larger  and  stronger  action,  broad- 
ening before  it  the  countless  opportunities  for  the  exer- 
cise of  its  energies,  holding  in  front  of  it  a  multitude  of 
fascinating  invitations  to  unsuspected  achievements,  urg- 
ing it  to  accept  them  by  numberless  thrilling  impulses, 
—  this  veritable  dawn  broke  upon  the  brain  of  Europe 
at  the  hour  when  the  human  soul  had  become  conscious 
of  its  slavery  to  the  institution  called  the  Holy  Catholic 
Church.  Already  conscience  was  revolting  against  her 
practices,  and  was  in  rebellion  against  her  superstitions. 
Noble  as  had  been  the  ministry  of  the  Church  for  centu- 
ries ;  great  as  had  been  her  sen-ice  as  a  bridge  from  the 
old  Roman  world  to  the  new  world  just  before  man's 


THE.  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  19 

vision  ;  indispensable  as  she  had  been  as  a  power  for  order 
and  progress  in  government,  education,  and  religion,  for 
ten  centuries  and  more,  —  the  hour  had  at  length  come 
when  that  function  was  no  longer  needed,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent that  she  had  refused  to  take  up  the  next  great  duty. 
She  was  declining  to  lead  the  intellect  into  the  new  realms 
which  it  was  predestined  to  enter  and  to  conquer.  She 
was  looking  backward,  not  forward.  She  was  asserting 
her  authority  without  having  any  echo  start  in  the  reason 
and  thought  of  man.  She  relied  on  her  might  as  an  in- 
stitution, at  the  hour  when  man  had  concluded  that  insti- 
tutions are  not  ends,  but  means  to  ends.  Democracy 
was  in  the  air;  she  was  imperial,  monarchic,  absolute. 
Human  life  had  grown  too  large  and  too  powerful  to  be 
limited  or  dominated  by  the  conception  which  she  had 
of  its  possibilities. 

In  1484  John  Laillier,  Doctor  of  the  Sorbonne,  cried 
out :  "  Since  the  days  of  Saint  Sylvester,  Rome  is  no 
church  of  Christ,  but  a  mere  state  church  for  extorting 
money."  Ten  years  later,  Columbus  had  read  a  new  dec- 
laration of  independence  to  the  enterprise  of  man,  and 
inflamed  the  imagination  of  Europe,  by  rinding  a  fresh 
field  for  human  endeavor  and  achievement.  Three  years 
later  still,  Aldus  Manutius  the  printer  had  written  in  his 
edition  of  Aristotle  :  "  Those  who  cultivate  letters  must 
be  supplied  with  books  necessary  for  their  purpose  ;  and 
till  this  supply  be  obtained  I  shall  not  be  at  rest."  "  In 
the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,"  was  the  legend  borne  by  the 
flag  of  each  new  crusader.  One  was  seeking  the  resur- 
rection place  of  the  essential  Christ  in  reform ;  another, 
in  discovery ;  another,  in  popular  intelligence.  A  fresh 
and  omnipotent  vision  of  the  real  Christ  had  come ;  the 
old  was  fading  away. 

Not  more  cruelly  did  the  Church  confine  the  brain 
and  assault  the  growing  intellect,  than  she  stupefied  and 


2O  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

outraged  the  conscience  of  men.  She  was  an  institution 
which  by  remaining  stationary  had  become  rotten,  while 
her  walls  were  being  hung  with  colors  and  her  floors 
relaid  with  a  mosaic  of  gems.  The  soul  had  at  last  be- 
come too  large  for  the  garment,  however  elegant,  however 
sacred.  It  was  moth-eaten  and  decayed ;  the  soul  was 
never  so  conscious  of  rapidly  growing  youth.  Anything, 
however  coarse  the  texture  and  however  poor  in  historic 
associations,  if  only  it  were  both  large  and  clean,  would 
be  a  grateful  substitute  for  this  confining  and  unclean 
vesture.  As  the  brain  demanded  room  for  its  life  and 
development,  the  conscience  demanded  freedom  and 
righteousness. 

So  simply,  so  vitally  is  the  Reformation  connected  with 
the  Renaissance.  While  the  Greek  poets  were  being 
quoted  in  the  Florentine  academy,  Pope  Julius  II.  was 
acknowledging  the  immorality  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Church,  as  he  said,  "  If  we  ourselves  are  not  pious,  why 
should  we  keep  the  people  from  being  so?"  It  « 
long  train  of  abuses,  fostered  by  the  Holy  See  and 
blessed  by  priestcraft,  which  lay  behind  the  remark  of 
the  Pope  whose  voice  we  are  to  hear  in  the  progress  of 
events  which  this  study  partially  describes,  Leo  X.,  when 
he  said,  "  Let  us  enjoy  the  papacy,  now  that  God  has 
given  it  to  us."  Honest  and  pure  men  remembered,  at 
that  time,  that  only  a  generation  had  gone  since  the  papal 
throne  had  been  disgraced  by  the  presence  of  four  such 
men  as  Pietro  Barba,  Francesco  delle  Rovere,  Giambat- 
tista  Cibo,  and  Roderigo  Borgia.  The  lower  clergy,  also, 
had  for  many  years  presented  a  sorry  spectacle.  There 
had  been  noble  men  in  the  papal  chair ;  so  also  were 
there  many  men  pure  and  true  in  the  monasteries.  But 
the  majority  were  too  constant  in  practices  of  evil  to  make 
of  the  piety  and  purity  of  the  slight  minority  aught  but 
such  exceptions  as  proved  the  rule. 

The  intelligence  and  conscience  of  Europe  began  to 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  21 

behold  the  offence  against  civil  government,  in  a  condi- 
tion of  affairs  which  allowed  criminals  to  resort  to  the 
monastic  life  that  they  might  escape  the  just  punishment 
which  otherwise  would  descend  upon  their  wickedness. 
The  law  was  powerless;  the  Church  held  the  reins  of 
authority  over  the  State  as  surely  as  when  Gregory  VII. 
compelled  Henry  IV.  to  tread  with  bare  feet  the  ice-clad 
summit  of  Canossa,  and  bend  the  fortunes  of  empire  to 
his  tyrannical  arrogance. 

As  the  conscience  of  the  times  awakened  out  of  sleep, 
it  became  roused  to  indignant  protest.  The  man  who 
felt  a  new  dawn  over  the  intellect,  as  he  read  Petrarch's 
praise  of  classic  bards,  turned  another  page  and  read  his 
sonnet  on  the  papal  court  at  Avignon  :  — 

"  Fountain  of  woe  !  Harbor  of  endless  ire  ! 

Thou  school  of  errors,  haunt  of  heresies  ! 
Once  Rome,  now  Babylon,  the  world's  disease, 
That  maddenest  men  with  fears  and  fell  desire  ! 
O  forge  of  fraud !    O  prison  dark  and  dire. 

Where  dies  the  good,  where  evil  breeds  increase  ! 
Thou  living  Hell !     Wonders  will  never  cease, 
If  Christ  rise  not  to  purge  thy  sins  with  fire, 
Founded  in  chaste  and  humble  poverty, 

Against  thy  founders  thou  dost  raise  thy  horn, 

Thou  shameless  harlot !     And  whence  flows  this  pride  ? 
Even  from  foul  and  loathed  adultery, 

The  wage  of  lewdness.     Constantine,  return  ! 
Not  so,  the  felon  world  its  fate  must  bide. 1 

He  saw  how  inevitably  Romish  ambition  and  greed 
had  brought  the  Holy  Church  to  such  a  condition. 
Men  had  already  demanded  reform.  Nearly  a  century 
before,  the  papal  legate  at  Basle,  Cardinal  Julian  Cesa- 
rini,  had  advocated  a  reform,  to  prevent  a  rebellion  of 
the  laity  and  the  extinction  of  the  clerical  functions.  As 
such  utterances  were  called  to  mind,  the  names  of  the 
earlier  reformers  shone  with  startling  brilliance.  Splen- 
did, indeed,  now  began  to  seem  the  figure  of  Peter  Waldo 

1  Symonds'  translation. 


JJ  .1/ttA'A'  AND   h'XIGHT. 

at  Lyons  and  those  of  his  successors,  who  in  the  valleys 
of  Piedmont  and  Dauphiny  had  suffered  for  their  hope, 
as  they  had  stood  up  against  the  corruption  and  tyr- 
anny of  Rome.  Bright  became  the  face  of  Peter  de  Bruys, 
as  from  the  flames  of  1 130  his  eyes  quivered  with  the  sub 
lime  expectancy  that  the  abuses  in  the  Church  would  be 
mitigated.  Heroic  in  stature  began  to  tower  upward  the 
form  of  John  Wycliffe,  as  the  mind  of  Europe  woke  to  be-' 
hold  the  Church  of  his  time  usurping  the  rights  of  the 
Crown,  impoverishing  England  to  furnish  luxuries  for 
Rome,  while  two  popes  were  pronouncing  anathemas  each 
upon  the  other,  and  bishops,  like  Spener,  were  engaged  in 
wholesale  homicide  for  their  sakes.  As  the  disgraceful 
character  of  many  of  the  popes,  bishops,  abbots,  and 
priests  became  known,  the  thoughtful  layman  looked 
more  favorably  on  John  Hus  and  Jerome  of  Prague,  who 
had  denied  their  authority,  rejecting  the  value  set  upon 
their  excommunications,  and  treating  the  offered  indul- 
gences as  abominations ;  and  they  looked  less  favorably 
upon  those  who  lit  fires  for  their  martyrdom.  John 
Tauler  and  Gerard  Groote  —  one  giving  to  the  soul  the 
privilege  and  results  of  pious  meditations,  the  other 
constituting  the  Order  of  the  Brothers  of  a  Common 
Life  —  took  other  places  than  those  assigned  to  them 
by  crafty  priests,  when  the  people  felt  what  the  truth 
which  the  one  spoke  and  the  education  which  the  other 
began,  must  do  for  a  benighted  and  corrupt  Church. 
Thomas  a  Kempis  was  read  by  hundreds  who  had  done 
with  hollow  forms  and  debauched  bishops,  and  who 
sought,  instead,  the  power  of  God.  John  of  Wesel 
became  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  as  the  laity  began  to 
look  backward,  and  to  behold  how  dark  it  was  when  he 
truly  called  the  indulgences  "  errors  and  lies."  Darker 
still,  however,  had  it  continued  to  be.  Faithful  men  now 
listened  to  the  Bishop  of  Worms,  as  he  said  :  "  Concubi- 
nage, from  the  commencement  of  the  fifteenth  century, 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  23 

is  publicly  and  formally  practised  by  the  clergy,  and  their 
mistresses  are  as  expensively  dressed  and  as  respectfully 
treated  as  if  their  connection  were  not  sinful  and  inde- 
cent, but  honorable  and  praiseworthy."  Voices  which 
had  been  hushed  in  death  by  wicked  popes  and  ambi- 
tious councils,  rang  out  in  their  unforgotten  words  with 
an  eloquence  which  had  at  last  touched  every  sincere 
heart. 

Literature  had  a  rich  field  in  the  facts  and  fancies 
associating  themselves  with  an  unreformed  Church. 
Walter  Mapes  made  such  rare  sport  out  of  the  papal 
throne  and  the  monk's  cowl,  and  he  did  it  in  such 
excellent  rhyme,  that  it  is  impossible  to  read  either  the 
history  of  the  Church  or  the  history  of  wit,  and  omit 
his  "  Golias."  "  The  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,"  and  the 
verses  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer  are  poems  quite  as  full  of 
genuine  agitation  on  the  topic  of  the  corruption  and 
crimes  of  the  Church,  as  was  a  speech  of  Daniel  O'Con- 
nell  concerning  the  state  of  Ireland.  With  unsparing 
sarcasm,  heartiest  good-humor,  and  often  with  noblest 
indignation  did  the  poets  and  teachers  of  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries  paint  an  institution,  haughty, 
selfish,  gross,  and  wicked,  filled  with  a  clergy  ignorant, 
vile,  tyrannical,  and  cruel.  Leo  X.  might  hasten  to 
forbid  the  "  Epistolae  Obscurorum  Virorum  "  to  be  read  ; 
but  before  his  hour  had  come,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio, 
Dante,  and  Poggio  had  furnished,  through  the  help  of 
the  printing-press  newly  invented,  hundreds  of  volumes 
in  which  the  Church,  as  she  then  existed,  was  proven  to 
be  incapable  and  unworthy;  and  many  of  these  were 
prophets  of  that  day,  soon  to  come,  which  William  Tyn- 
dale  was  to  see.  "  If  God  will  spare  my  life,"  said  he  to 
a  learned  ecclesiastic,  "  I  will  cause  a  boy  that  driveth 
the  plough  shall  know  more  of  Scripture  than  thou  dost." 

These  books  of  unsparing  wit  and  liveliest  humor  had 


24  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

not  been  read  at  all,  had  there  not  been  a  keen  sense  of 
the  audacious  offensiveness  of  ecclesiastical  power.  It 
was  impossible  for  the  hierarchy  to  keep  such  of  her  own 
ranks  as  the  bishops  of  Augsburg,  Breslau,  and  Meissen 
from  telling  the  truth  concerning  the  real  condition  of 
religious  life  to  the  growing  host  who  had  no  longer 
faith  in  the  ideals  of  the  Church.  The  air  was  so 
charged  with  the  forces  of  reformation  that  the  songs 
of  the  shoemaker,  Hans  Sachs,  echoed  upon  the  morn- 
ing with  the  commanding  music  of  a  trumpet  calling 
unto  battle.  Germany  was  as  weary  of  extracting  coins 
from  the  labor  of  her  people,  to  make  rich  and  luxurious 
the  career  of  church  officials  at  Rome,  as  England  was  of 
beholding  what  a  door  was  opened  to  papal  arrogance, 
when  the  stupid  Henry  III.  admitted  the  claims  of  Rome. 
France,  however,  was  not  so  disgusted  at  the  licentious 
pomp  of  the  papal  court  at  Avignon,  between  1342  and 
1352,  as  was  even  the  easy  Italian  conscience,  in  the 
ice  of  such  a  state  of  affairs  in  the  Church  as 
would  justify  Dante,  when  he  said, — 

u  Modern  shepherds  need 
Those  who  on  either  hand  prop  and  lead  them, 
So  burly  are  they  grown  ;  and  from  behind 
Others  to  hoist  them.     Down  palfrey's  sides 
Spread  their  broad  mantles,  so  as  both  the  beasts 
Are  covered  with  one  skin.     O  patience  !  thou 
That  look's!  on  this,  and  dost  endure  so  long  ..." 

Italy  could  not  forget  the  associated  absolutism  of 
clergy  and  Guelphs  in  stimulating  civil  war.  A  Pope 
i  IV.  stealing  a  crown  to  place  it  on  the  head  of  a 
Charles  of  Anjou  was  not  a  figure  calculated  to  inspire 
religious  emotion.  Boniface  VIII.,  who  otitri vailed  Hil- 
debrand  in  his  tyrannical  assumption  of  control  over  civil 
government,  stood  by  the  side  of  the  infamous  Inno- 
cent IV.,  who,  when  he  heard  of  the  death  of  Frederick 
of  Sicily,  wrote  to  his  sinful  clergy :  "  Let  the  heavens 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  2$ 

rejoice,  and  the  earth  be  glad ;  for  the  storm  that  was 
hovering  over  your  heads  has  been  averted  by  the  death 
of  this  man,  and  is  changed  into  refreshing  breezes  and 
nourishing  dews."  Gregory  X.  had,  two  hundred  years 
before,  tried  to  repress  what  he  called  "  those  extravagant 
swarms  of  holy  beggars,"  only  to  leave  certain  others  of 
the  religious  orders  masters  of  the  field.  But  so  deep 
was  the  necessity  for  reform,  and  so  impossible  was  it  for 
them  to  reform  the  orders  and  the  institution,  that  the 
mendicants  either  uttered  protests  against  the  sins  and 
selfishness  of  the  popes,  or  corruptly  bargained  at  con- 
fessions and  led  in  the  carnival  of  licentiousness.  When 
men  were  most  bewildered,  and  were  most  strongly  com- 
manded, on  pain  of  eternal  hell,  to  obey  the  infallible 
head  of  the  Church,  the  mind  of  Europe  was  compelled 
to  behold  a  two-headed  papacy,  in  the  persons  of  an 
Urban  and  a  Clement,  each  during  life  asserting  in  the 
loftiest  fashion  that  the  other  was  fraudulent,  and  after 
death,  for  forty  years,  perpetuating  through  their  adhe- 
rents this  ludicrous  monstrosity,  until  with  Alexander  V. 
three  Popes  vied  with  one  another  in  confounding  and 
debauching  Christendom. 

A  sort  of  relief  came  when  this  abominable  controversy 
was  succeeded  by  the  elevation  and  deposition  of  one, 
who  was  only  approached  in  wickedness  by  Gregory  XII. 
and  Benedict  XIII., — John  XXIII.  by  name,  who  was 
greedy,  untruthful,  lascivious,  and  murderous  to  a  degree 
which  would  enable  him  to  conduct  a  wholesale  mas- 
sacre. Even  cardinals  were  compelled  to  be  awkwardly 
fastidious  about  what  they  would  drink  at  the  tables  of 
the  pious  dignitaries  and  exalted  ecclesiastics,  lest  the 
draught  should  prove  to  be  poison  instead  of  wine.  Pope 
and  anti-Pope,  as  Felix  V.  and  Nicholas  V.,  arranged 
their  troubles,  eacn  entirely  careless  of  the  rights  of  the 
laity.  A  Clement  V.  or  John  XXII.  could  add  to  sensual 
rapacity  a  record  of  so  following  the  meek  and  lowly 


26  MO.VA'  A. YD   KX1G11T. 

Lord  as  to  leave  eighteen  thousand  gold  florins,  and 
nearly  seven  thousand  more  in  jewels  and  silver ;  and 
salvation  from  sin,  or  rather  deliverance  from  hell,  was 
to  be  obtained  only  through  certain  formularies  of  which 
they  were  the  masters,  or  certain  inventions  of  which 
they  were  sole  proprietors. 

Two  shameless  women,  Theodora  and  Marozia,  had 
so  often  and  so  easily  set  up  and  pulled  down  their 
relatives,  or  licentious  allies  in  sin,  that  there  grew 
up  what  perhaps  is  only  a  tradition,  —  that  the  illus- 
trious sinner  Joan  once  guarded  and  debauched  the 
Holy  See.  The  papal  right  and  dignity  had  been, 
bought  and  sold  by  adulterers  and  murderers ;  it  had 
been  possessed  by  Benedict  IX.,  who  was  old  in  iniq- 
uity, and  yet  Pope  at  twelve  years  of  age;  it  had  Uvn 
rescued  by  Gregory  VII.,  who  made  it  usurp  the  rights 
of  empire. 

At  the  remembrance  of  these  things,  the  thought  of 
printing  a  Bible  for  all  men  to  read,  in  which  it  was 
taught  by  Peter  himself  that  all  Christians  are  priests  of 
the  living  God,  seemed  to  the  papacy  and  to  the  clergy 
like  inviting  a  revolution.  Of  course,  the  Bible  must  be 
read  and  explained  only  by  a  clerical  force,  sworn  to  an- 
nihilate such  results  as  this  ideal  would  produce  in  the 
minds  of  men,  moved  as  they  now  were,  and  liberated  as 
they  were  sure  to  be,  by  the  Renaissance.  That  men 
dared  to  dream  of  salvation,  except  through  the  long 
and  mechanical  devices  of  the  priesthood,  organized  and 
ruled  by  popes,  was  enough  to  close  every  Bible,  and 
start  the  fires  of  inquisitions. 

It  had  to  be  considered  heresy  worthy  of  death  to 
deny  the  absolute  necessity  of  penance ;  else  how  could 
the  Church  have  enforced  her  flagellations,  confessions, 
hair-shirts,  grievous  pilgrimages,  painful  scourges,  exhaus- 
tive fasts,  which,  by  the  plan  of  granting  pardons  and 
selling  indulgences  to  those  who  could  buy  or  be  threat- 


THE  MORNING  HOUR  IN  EUROPE.  2/ 

ened,  brought  gigantic  revenues  and  sweet  satisfaction  to 
the  coffers  and  ambition  of  the  Pope. 

One  of  the  Clements  had  invented  the  most  profit- 
able method  of  emptying  the  pockets  of  sinners,  and  fill- 
ing the  treasuries  of  luxurious  tyrants,  which  the  world 
ever  knew,  —  the  granting  of  indulgences.  This  was  the 
manner  of  his  thinking :  "  Christ  had  not  only  died  for 
men,  but  he  had  done  more ;  by  his  abundant  sufferings 
he  and  his  saints  had  filled  a  repository,  of  which  the 
Church  had  complete  control  on  earth,  —  a  treasury  of 
accessible  merit.  This  merit  could  be  doled  out  for  a 
consideration."  This,  which  was  insisted  upon  as  a  fact, 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  sale  of  indulgences.  Purgatorial 
fires  stood  ahead  for  those  who  had  paid  insufficiently, 
who  yet  had  paid  all  they  could  afford  to  pay  here.  At 
last,  while  the  pedler  of  indulgences  was  plying  his  trade 
in  the  country,  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  human  beings 
in  thirty  days  carried  to  Rome  their  coins  and  their  sins, 
dragging  their  souls  beneath  tnis  hideous  slavery. 

But  the  end  was  near;  for  the  Renaissance  had 
quickened  the  human  brain,  and  the  heart  was  in  revolt 
against  this  shameless  cruelty,  which  had  nothing  but 
swords  and  flame  for  those  who  dared  to  protest.  The 
conscience  thundered  and  lightened  above  the  abomi- 
nable spectacle.  The  storm  which  should  rend  many  a 
human  breast  and  overset  many  a  tradition,  belief,  and 
throne,  had  broken  upon  Europe,  never  to  be  silent  until 
a  better  day  had  come. 


CHAPTER   I. 

ENTERTAIN!  V;    ANiiELS   UNAWARES. 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  Thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 

cattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  Thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not ;  in  Thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  Thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slam  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese  that  rolled 
Mothers  with  infants  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  Tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred-fold  who  having  learned  Thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

MILTON. 

AI.(  )\G  red  wave  of  splendor  ran  swiftly  across  the 
summit  of  the  stainless  peak  which  towered  just 
behind  the  simple  dwelling  of  Caspar  Perrin.  The 
whole  year  had  been  one  of  such  agony  that  every 
night  the  quivering  crimson  on  the  mountain-top  seemed 
to  have  been  drained  from  human  hearts.  Caspar  sat 
with  the  sweetest  of  little  children  in  his  lap,  her  golden 
hair  playing  against  his  honest  breast,  as  the  Alpine 
breezes,  which  could  not  be  entirely  shut  out,  toyed 
tenderly  with  its  beauty.  It  was  midwinter,  1509,  of 
the  years  of  grace ;  but  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  one  possessed  with  a  faith  less  strong  and  sublime 


ENTERTAINING  ANGELS   UNAWARES.         29 

than  that  of  this  stalwart  Waldensian  to  have  thought 
of  that  anguish-laden  year  as  "  a  year  of  grace."  Ter- 
rible as  had  been  the  efforts  of  the  dominant  ecclesi- 
astical power,  under  the  guidance  of  Innocent  VIII., 
to  root  out  and  abolish  the  Waldensians  in  Italy,  France, 
and  Germany  more  than  twenty  years  before,  and  far 
more  general,  this  year  had  marked  the  very  height  of 
papal  intolerance  and  churchly  cruelty  as  they  raged  in 
that  lovely  valley. 

Many  years  before,  the  ancestors  of  Caspar  had  led 
their  little  ones  with  flock  and  herd  to  this  spot,  that 
the  walls  which  God  Himself  had  upraised  might  protect 
them.  The  family  had  that  intelligence  and  experience 
which  made  them  tremble  at  the  name  of  the  Holy 
Church.  Long  ago  they  had  learned  that  when  his 
Holiness  had  conferred  upon  their  Swiss  neighbors  the 
title  of  "  Protectors  of  the  Liberties  of  the  Church,"  the 
Pope  held  those  words  to  signify  something  very  differ- 
ent from  that  which  the  study  of  the  Scriptures  and 
purity  of  life  had  made  them  mean  amid  the  leaping 
waters,  the  clear  sunshine,  and  the  immutable  crags  of 
Switzerland. 

This  year  had  enabled  them  to  read  for  themselves 
infallible  signs  of  the  spirit  which  demanded  a  reforma- 
tion on  every  hand.  No  longer  could  the  simplest 
villager  or  the  most  solitary  mountaineer  content  his 
enthusiasm  of  opposition  to  Rome  by  informing  it  with 
the  memory  of  what  some  chance  traveller  from  France 
or  Germany  had  related  to  him,  in  whispers,  of  the 
wrongs  which  under  papal  protection,  held  carnival. 
The  fire  was  glowing  and  blowing  into  a  fury,  from 
fuel  cut  at  his  own  door.  The  year  1509  had  been 
so  decisive  that  it  had  lifted  many  a  less  sensitive  and 
positive  man  than  was  Caspar  Perrin  over  into  the  pro- 
digious movement  called  the  Reformation. 

He  had  just  fed  the  little  girl  her  evening  meal  of 


3O  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

goat's  milk  and  bread,  and  was  looking  into  one  of  those 
unsubstantial  and  yet  real  worlds  which  lie  behind  and 
often  within  the  world  of  sense.  It  was  along  that  line 
where  memory  and  imagination  confront  each  other  — 
the  one  looking  backward  and  the  other  looking  forward 
—  that  Caspar's  mind  was  travelling.  He  was  behold- 
ing how  indivisible  these  realms  —  the  very  dwelling- 
places  and  haunts  of  these  two  faculties  —  seem  to  be, 
as  his  recollections  went  back  but  a  few  months  to  the 
hour  when  there  were  two  little  children  for  him  to  feed 
at  eventide ;  and  as  his  fancies  filled  the  pathless  days 
and  nights  of  imagination  with  the  presence  and  wander- 
ings of  the  child  whom  he  had  lost,  grief  took  possession 
of  him. 

Caspar's  life  was  more  solitary  than  ever  before,  now 
that  the  little  Ami  had  been  captured  and  carried  away ; 
and  as  he  thought  of  it,  a  big  tear  ran  down  his  great 
rough  cheek,  and  fell,  like  a  drop  of  liquid  silver,  amid 
the  hair  of  gold. 

His  had  been  a  life  in  whose  lights  and  shadows  there 
had  been  much  pathos  and  poetry.  Born  here,  in  the 
midst  of  these  scenes,  his  youth  had  been  nurtured  upon 
the  most  vitalizing  food  for  mind  and  spirit.  His  father, 
Henri  Perrin,  had  feared  and  loved  Almighty  God ;  and 
this  made  him  a  freeman  in  his  very  soul.  Henri's  re- 
ligious life  had  been  influenced  by  the  inspiring  name 
and  works  of  Peter  Waldo  of  Lyons.  His  youth  was 
that  of  a  Waldensian  at  Lyons ;  and  his  manhood  had 
been  passed  in  the  mountains,  in  constant  expectation 
that,  being  a  leader  of  the  \Valdensians,  his  place  of  resi- 
dence would  be  found  out  and  his  life  sacrificed.  For 
thirty  years  the  father  of  Caspar  had  endured  poverty 
and  exile  with  never  a  murmur.  For  a  generation  he 
had  gladly  confessed  to  his  joy  in  the  mountain  solitudes, 
as  he  remembered  how,  as  a  layman,  he  had  consecrated 
the  sacrament,  and  how,  as  an  honest  man,  he  had  once 


ENTERTAINING  ANGELS   UNAWARES.         31 

refused  to  obey  a  priest  of  vicious  habits.  He  had  told 
Caspar  of  coming  events,  the  prophecy  of  which  the  son 
had  not  forgotten  when,  in  1487,  his  own  sister  fell  under 
the  cruel  crusade  of  Alberto  de  Capitanei.  For  him, 
when  Caspar  was  only  a  boy,  the  priest  had  gone,  and 
the  guide,  or  Barbe",  had  become  his  minister.  In  his 
ecclesiastical  vocabulary  character  had  long  ago  eclipsed 
ordination.  Purgatory  he  denied  absolutely,  and  fasts 
and  festivals  he  abhorred ;  and  Caspar  had  grown  up  to 
hear  the  tread  of  great  coming  events  in  his  father's 
animated  conversations. 

These  convictions  Caspar  had  at  once  learned  to  make 
his  own.  He  had  not  his  father's  calmness  of  temper ; 
and  his  eyes  soon  beheld  scenes  so  atrocious  that  one 
day  he  found  himself  hurried  into  Italy  by  having  obeyed 
his  own  indignant  impulse  to  restrain  their  foe  and  his 
desire  to  save  his  friends;  and  in  1506  he  appeared 
fixed  as  an  exile  in  Venice,  having  failed  in  his  effort, 
utterly  broken  in  hope  and  very  poor  in  purse.  He  had 
soon  married  an  Italian  woman  of  singular  mental  free- 
dom, who  had  accepted  him  suddenly,  after  an  honest 
but  stormy  discussion  of  her  religious  views  with  her 
father,  who  was  then  a  penniless  count.  Caspar  was  at 
the  time  employed  as  a  workman  in  a  press-room  in 
Venice,  —  a  press-room  of  which  the  world  shall  always 
preserve  the  chronicle,  —  and  was  doing  well,  when  his 
wife  died  and  left  Caspar  with  two  little  children  alone 
in  the  great  world. 

When  that  dreadful  event  fell  upon  the  life  of  this 
husband  and  father,  and  he  looked  upon  his  little  ones 
through  such  tears  as  blunders  and  poverty  never  may 
extract  from  human  eyes,  he  was  only  at  the  beginning 
of  such  a  strife  with  his  wife's  father,  Count  Aldani 
Neforzo,  as  was  sure  to  end  in  his  leaving  Venice.  No 
effort  or  threatenings  of  the  count,  who  had  already 
forsaken  his  daughter,  could  persuade  this  Waldensian 


32  MOXK  AXD  K'XIGHT. 

to  obtain  or  to  permit  —  if  possible  to  prevent  —  prayers 
for  the  dead.  Together  they  had  lived  in  a  truer  and 
deeper  faith.  She  should  be  respected  in  her  opinions 
and  piety,  now  that  death  had  intervened. 

The  count  brandished  weapons  of  the  most  effective 
sort  against  the  humble  but  heroic  press- man.  Poor  and 
ill-tempered  as  was  the  count,  his  pedigree  and  un- 
doubted loyalty  to  the  Church  made  the  priesthood  of 
Venice  his  agents  and  slaves.  Even  the  great  employer 
of  Caspar  could  do  nothing,  though  he  should  lose  the 
finest  workman  in  Europe,  —  the  servant  who  in  1502 
had  suggested  the  dolphin  and  anchor  for  titlepages,  the 
hand  which  was  bringing  to  Venice  the  scholars  from  every 
quarter  who  had  seen  the  matchless  "  Demosthenes " 
of  1504.  Assassination,  in  the  person  of  a  closely  cov- 
ered priest,  glired  at  Caspar  one  night  as  he  passed 
from  the  printing-room  into  the  street.  The  powers  of 
the  Church  in  Venice  were  determined  to  crush  the 
Waldensian ;  and  one  day  Caspar  had  sold  to  his  illus- 
trious employer  a  beautiful  manuscript,  for  which  he  had 
traded  his  rings  to  a  sailor  from  Constantinople  ;  and 
with  his  children  he  hurried  back,  by  aid  of  the  funds 
thus  obtained,  to  the  old  home  in  the  mountains. 

Here  in  his  mountain  home  we  have  found  him,  at  the 
opening  of  this  chapter.  His  wife's  dust  lay  in  Venice ; 
his  hands  were  a  testimony  to  the  fact  that  the  printer 
had  been  lost  in  the  herdsman,  and  the  falling  tear  bore 
witness  to  the  new  sorrow  which  had  befallen  him. 

He  was  living  with  the  memory  of  a  spring  day  which 
seemed  only  yesterday.  Never  had  the  valley  appeared 
so  beautiful  as  on  that  morning  of  which  the  herdsman 
was  then  thinking,  in  whose  dewy  loveliness  he  had  started 
forth  with  little  Ami  and  his  baby  sister,  to  find  the  miss- 
ing goats.  After  he  left  the  little  roof  which  had  shel- 
tered him  and  the  two  children,  it  was  a  joy  to  watch  the 
happy  boy  bound  over  the  dashing  streams  which  worried 


ENTERTAINING  ANGELS  UNAWARES.         33 

their  way  amidst  the  rocks,  and  to  pluck  the  fairest  flowers 
for  the  child,  whom,  for  love's  sake,  Caspar  carried  in  his 
arms. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  until  the  father's  hand  was  full 
of  flowers,  before  which  the  little  girl's  eyes  were  in  an 
ecstasy.  They  were  strangely  colored  orbs  of  loveliness. 
The  variety  of  their  color  bespoke  a  many-sided  and  rich 
nature.  The  father  could  behold  everything  within  them 
which  in  any  way  influenced  or  grew  out  of  the  solitary 
but  seething  intellectual  life  which  he  was  living. 

Nothing  so  holds  the  two  realms  —  that  of  revelation 
which  satisfies,  that  of  mystery  which  charms  and  in- 
spires —  as  human  eyes  behind  and  within  which  lives  a 
soul.  Caspar  saw  in  that  child  the  whole  majestic  move- 
ment which  he  felt  in  his  own  breast. 

He  had  named  her  Alke,  "  yearning ; "  and  in  those 
peculiarly  eloquent  eyes  there  was  such  longing,  in  her 
very  cry  such  a  persistent  and  hopeful  struggle  seemed  to 
be  uttering  itself,  so  often  in  her  babyhood  she  seemed 
to  be  gathering  invisible  sheaves  from  ideal  harvest  fields, 
so  constantly  now  the  lucent  depth  of  her  eye  was  but  an 
indication  of  how  far  beyond  her  environment  it  sent  its 
searching  aspiration,  that  he  was  sure  that  she  had  been 
well  named.  The  tremendous  energies  of  the  Renais- 
sance were  leaping  lightning-like  about  the  printing-room 
of  Aldus  Manutius,  in  Venice,  when  he  quit  work  that 
night  to  go  home  and  call  her  Alke  !  The  resistless  cry 
of  the  human  soul  for  light  and  leading,  which  was  then 
echoing  over  Germany  and  Switzerland,  was  pathetic  in 
its  longing,  as  he  pressed  her  to  his  breast  on  the  night 
her  mother  died,  and  felt  in  his  very  soul  that  this  child 
was  somehow  bound  up  in  destiny  with  the  soul's  de- 
mand, —  Alke,  "  yearning." 

Love  had  been  wedded  to  learning,  and  religion  had 
been  allied  with  reform,  in  that  name ;  and  the  child  had 
a  piteous  sacredness  that  morning,  when  the  little  boy, 

VOL.  I.  —  3 


34  MONK  AND  K'NIGUT. 

with  proud  affection,  placed  in  her  baby  fingers  a  fringed 
gentian,  blue  as  the  sky  above.  And  Caspar  wondered 
if  all  the  tumult  and  strife  of  many  swift  and  antagonistic 
streams  would  ever  press  upon  the  brain  and  strain  the 
heart  of  Alke.  As  he  felt  the  grandeur  of  the  crisis  at 
which  he  knew  Europe  had  arrived,  he  unconsciously 
kissed  the  rosy  lips  of  the  child  in  his  arms,  called 
the  boy  from  the  edge  of  the  abyss  down  into  whose 
deeps  he  was  gazing,  and  kissed  him  likewise,  again 
and  again,  and  then  he  stood  listening  for  the  wandering 
goats. 

Alas,  what  a  thrill  of  pain  shot  through  his  very  soul, 
as  he  kissed  that  strong  and  beautiful  boy  !  It  was  the 
strange  horror  of  impending  danger  which  made  him 
kiss  him  the  second  time. 

Caspar  could  now  detect  that  same  pain  about  his 
heart  still,  as  he  sat  there  on  that  winter  night,  thinking 
it  all  over. 

He  remembered  so  vividly  his  saying  to  the  baby, 
"  Ami,  dear  little  brother,  Ami ! "  and  looking  at  the 
innocent  ignorance  of  Alke.  He  was  not  disappointed 
either ;  for  the  child  did  smile,  drop  her  fringed  gentian, 
and  she  patted  the  boy's  cheek. 

Ami  was  twelve  years  of  age  on  that  very  day,  and  the 
father  could  not  forget  how  he  sat  on  a  rock,  which  he 
saw  had  fallen  lately  from  the  height  above,  beholding 
the  two  playing  together,  —  the  boy  so  proud  of  the  love 
with  which  this  sweet  three-year  old  caressed  him.  He 
remembered  it  all.  The  walk  to  the  cottage  of  his  friend, 
Nirval  Arnaud's  home,  where  the  little  Alke  was  left  with 
the  old  grandmother;  the  whole  past  was  so  real  that 
now  and  then,  as  he  sat  there,  Ris  feet  moved,  and  the 
child  on  his  breast  was  wakeful.  The  enthusiasm  of 
Ami's  spirit  and  the  ardor  of  his  more  boyish  imagina- 
tions had  heard  the  goats  up  the  mountain-side ;  but  oh, 
the  terrible  cry  of  the  mountaineers,  as  a  few  of  them 


ENTERTAINING  ANGELS   UNAWARES.         35 

shouted  the  news  of  the  attack  !  Even  yet  it  almost  lifted 
Caspar  from  his  seat,  as  he  remembered  it. 

It  was  the  third  charge  of  the  papal  cohorts  within  a 
year  upon  the  Waldensians.  Down  they  came,  without 
pity,  robbing  the  homes  of  fathers  and  sons,  burning  cot- 
tages, stabbing  old  men  suspected  of  heresy,  sparing  only 
the  aged  women  and  the  infants,  —  all  in  the  name  of 
the  Holy  Church  ! 

Caspar  lived  it  all  over  again,  as  he  sat  with  Alke  in 
his  arms ;  and  the  tear  which  fell  into  the  golden  hair 
was  only  one  of  a  multitude  which  had  fallen  from  the 
eyes  which  on  that  fatal  day  beheld  one  of  that  cohort 
—  a  French  soldier  who  was  clad  as  a  knight  —  seize  the 
terrified  boy,  who  clung  to  his  wounded  father,  tear  him 
away,  and  strapping  the  child  to  his  saddle,  ride  afar 
toward  the  valley,  while  the  hills  echoed  with  the  hoof- 
beats  of  his  horse  and  Ami's  pathetic  crying. 

Ami  was  lost.  The  great  gashes  upon  Caspar's  fore- 
arms were  testimonies  of  the  fierceness  of  the  struggle. 
The  child  had  died  on  the  way  to  Paris ;  so  Caspar  had 
found  out,  on  his  own  recovery. 

Ami  thereafter  had  been  but  a  holy  memory,  a  stolen 
hope.  The  infernal  power  which  had  captured  his  boy 
and  panted  for  Caspar's  life  was  left,  —  so  was  Alke  ;  so 
also  the  Lord  God  Omnipotent.  After  all,  he  was  not 
alone. 

It  had  grown  dark  while  Caspar  had  recalled  these 
events ;  and  the  little  golden  head  had  fallen  over  upon 
the  strong  arm,  which  now  lifted  her  a  trifle  without  dis- 
turbing the  delicious  sleep  into  which  the  child  had 
fallen. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is,"  thought  Caspar,  "that,  at  least 
for  a  time  in  this  life,  a  human  being  may  fall  asleep  in 
the  very  presence  of  sleepless  forces  which  arrange  revo- 
lutions !  "  And  just  as  he  had  muttered  this  to  his  half- 
wakened  soul,  he  saw  through  the  shadows  which  fell 


36  .i/avA'  .-/.\v>  KXIGHT. 

thickly  upon  the  snows,  two  men  on  horseback  approach- 
ing his  door. 

Little  did  the  Waldensian  know  that  the  word  "  revo- 
lution," which  had  just  escaped  his  lips,  would  never  be 
pronounced  in  after  centuries  save  with  the  recollection 
of  one  of  those  tired  travellers,  and  that  he  who  was  to 
be  his  guest  that  night  had  already  done  something  to 
loosen  the  vast  masses  which  would  sweep,  like  the  ava- 
lanche which  Caspar  saw  the  day  before,  over  the  enor- 
mous area  of  human  thought,  and  leave  it  ready  for  fresh 
growths  and  a  new  civilization. 

As  the  strangers  neared  the  cottage,  Caspar  slowly 
arose ;  and  with  the  tenderness  of  a  mother,  he  put  the 
little  child  on  the  cot  nearest  the  open  fire,  which  threw 
its  streams  of  brilliant  light  out  on  the  snow  when  he 
opened  the  door. 


CHAPTER   II. 

STRANGERS  AND    FELLOW- CITIZENS. 

True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 
Who,  in  the  hour  of  silent  thought, 
Can  still  suspect  and  still  revere  himself. 

WORDSWORTH. 

travellers,"  said  the  servant,  who  had  alighted, 
"who  are  not  sure  of  their  way,  and  who  will 
hope  to  find  the  best  pass  through  the  mountains  by  day, 
beseech  you,  good  friend,  to  allow  them  to  remain  with 
you  until  morning." 

Caspar  had  once  been  lost  in  those  mountains;  and 
his  experience  and  sympathy  opened  his  heart  and  home. 
But  before  he  could  say  a  single  word,  his  mind  was  em- 
ploying itself  in  detecting  tones  in  that  voice  like  those 
he  had  heard  so  often  at  Venice,  on  the  liquid  streets,  in 
the  boats,  and  especially  in  the  printing-room  of  Aldus. 
It  was  not  light  enough  for  him  to  attempt  to  make 
new  acquaintances  or  to  identify  old  ones,  but  he  had 
certainly  noticed  a  familiar  method  of  pronunciation. 

"What  I  have,"  said  Caspar,  "is  certainly  at  the  dis- 
posal of  any  who  on  such  a  night  and  in  such  deep 
snows  travel  these  mountain  roads.  Will  you  both  come 
into  my  cottage?  " 

"  I  must  thank  you,  my  kind  man !  "  said  the 
other  traveller,  in  dignified  and  somewhat  lofty  tones. 


38  .J/6WA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

<4  This  surely  is  not  courtesy,  but  the  very  essence  of 
humanity." 

\>  he  alighted,  Caspar  was  thinking  where  he  had 
heard  that  voice.  A  hundred  Venetians  might  have  pro- 
nounced words,  as  did  the  servant  who  spoke  first,  but 
he  had  never  but  once  heard  a  voice  so  full  of  culture,  so 
eloquent  with  refinement,  so  suggestive  of  quiet  power, 
as  that  which  had  just  spoken,  —  never  but  once ;  and 
then  in  that  dear  old  press-room  at  Venice,  when  one 
day  with  his  eminent  master,  Aldus,  he  had  looked,  with 
one  who  was  a  stranger  to  him  at  that  hour,  at  a  rare 
manuscript. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  whispered  Caspar,  "  that  I  have  lost 
my  wits  in  this  solitude,  and  that  this  memory  of  Venice 
makes  my  very  ears  its  victim." 

"  I  will  attend  to  the  horses  very  soon,  when  I  am  a 
little  warmed,"  said  the  servant ;  and  behind  the  master, 
who  walked  slowly  and  with  evident  weakness,  he  came 
into  the  little  home  which  fairly  glowed  with  welcome. 

"  Strangers  that  you  are,"  said  the  host,  "  I  can  prom- 
ise you  some  food,  if  it  will  not  offend  you  to  partake 
with  me  of  bread  made  by  my  own  hands ;  "  and  he  made 
his  way  toward  a  huge  jar  which  contained  the  provisions 
of  the  home. 

A  two-branched  candlestick  of  peculiar  beauty  stood 
by  the  little  sundial  with  which  the  child  had  been 
amused  that  afternoon;  and  it  soon  bore  two  lights, 
which  revealed  many  more  of  the  curious  and  interest- 
ing contents  of  this  interior. 

'•  Where  could  this  mountaineer  have  obtained  such 
a  piece  of  household  furniture  as  this?"  silently  queried 
the  dignified  stranger,  as  he  beheld  saucepans  piled 
upon  a  metal  boiler,  and  by  its  side  a  ewer  of  Oriental 
origin,  and  a  pitcher,  on  which  had  been  copied  with 
artistic  accuracy  the  scene  of  the  burning  of  Girolamo 
Savonarola  in  St.  Mark's,  Florence. 


STRANGERS  AND  FELLOW-CITIZENS. 


39 


"This,"  added  he,  in  the  silence  of  his  thoughts,  "  is 
more  like  Florence  than  anything  I  have  seen  since  leav- 
ing ; "  and  speaking  aloud,  he  said,  "  My  good  friend,  I 
beg  you  know  that  whatever  you  have  will  be  gratefully 
eaten  by  one  so  dependent  on  your  hospitality  and  so 
fond  as  I  am  of  your  Piedmontese  food." 

Forthwith  Caspar  produced  a  loaf  of  acorn  bread,  and 
proceeded  to  make  a  stew  of  rabbit  and  herbs,  the  very 
odor  of  which  was  a  full  meal  to  the  youth,  who  by  this 
time  had  provided  for  the  horses. 

"  Never  was  prince  better  fed,"  was  the  remark  of  the 
older  traveller,  as  he  was  half  startled  by  rinding  beneath 
his  hands,  on  the  table  where  stood  the  bowl  which 
Alke  had  but  just  emptied,  a  copy,  exquisite,  clear,  and 
especially  well  bound,  of  the  "  Herone  et  Leandro  "  of 
Musseus,  printed  by  Aldus  in  1494. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  he  was  in  a  fairy  realm  ?  The 
only  copy  he  had  seen,  outside  of  that  famous  printing- 
room  of  Aldus,  was  held  carefully  in  the  hand  of  Lorenzo 
de  Medici's  intellectual  councillor  and  vicegerent,  Pico 
della  Mirandola.  He  dropped  his  bit  of  acorn  bread, 
which  he  was  eating,  as  his  mind  turned  from  that  poor 
man's  home,  with  its  smells  of  bacon,  bouilleux,  pot- 
pourri, and  garlic,  to  the  palace  of  Lorenzo,  where  the 
learned  and  elegant  Pico  pored  over  his  costly  cabalistic 
manuscripts,  and  patted  gently  the  "  Herone  et  Lean- 
dro," with  which  Aldus  Manutius  had  favored  him. 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  the  stranger  to  wonder  where 
in  the  world  he  had  aforetime  seen  this  man,  his  host. 
Something  about  the  man  took  him  back  to  the  press- 
room of  Aldus.  He  could  almost  see  him  there,  amidst 
the  newly  discovered  manuscripts  and  the  workmen. 
Then,  the  drawing  on  the  pitcher,  —  that  was  the  Flor- 
ence of  Savonarola's  day,  an  excited,  mob-ruled,  offen- 
sive Florence,  from  which  every  characteristic  of  the 
wondering  man  turned  away. 


40  .!/(?.  VA-  AND  KNIGHT. 

k>  Ah,"  he  thought,  "Savonarola's  death  pictured  in 
this  man's  home  !  I  see  it  all.  He  is  a  Waldensian  ! 
I  am  in  the  home  of  one  of  the  men  who  have  for  so 
long  made  this  furor  about  reforming  the  Church." 

He  was  thinking  it  over,  while  the  youth  who  was  his 
attendant  was  making  some  general  remarks  about  the 
city  of  Turin  and  the  snows  which  they  had  encountered 
on  their  way,  when,  at  length,  something  occurred  which 
made  him  sure  that  the  roof  of  a  radical  and  intense 
Waldensian  was  over  his  head. 

The  door  had  opened,  and  without  ceremony  a  wild- 
eyed,  ill-tempered  old  woman  had  entered,  holding  a 
huge  wooden  cross  before  her  noisy  tongue.  She  did  not 
notice  either  of  the  strangers,  but  proceeded  to  berate 
the  man  of  the  house  with  bitterness  and  curses,  while  she 
attempted  to  pound  him  with  this  pious  emblem. 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Caspar,  in  a  loud  whisper.  "  Don't  wake 
little  Alke ;  she  is  just  asleep.  I  will  give  you  justice. 
Away  with  your  missile  !  "  as  she  threw  it  at  him  with  all 
ner  power. 

"  I  '11  have  you  cursed  by  the  priest  on  the  hill ;  and 
Saint  Bridget  herself  will  dry  up  your  cows,  and  little  Alke 
will  starve  !  I  '11  tell  the  holy  friars  that  you  're  hereti- 
cal, and  you  will  be  burned  alive  !  " 

This  last  sentence  she  fairly  shouted,  while  the  baby 
slept  sweetly,  and  the  kind  but  irritated  Caspar  pushed 
her  toward  the  door,  and  gently  held  her  with  one 
hand,  while  with  his  other  strong  hand  he  gathered  up 
the  pieces  of  the  broken  cross.  Soon  he  had  compelled 
her  to  leave  her  curses  behind. 

"  My  friends,"  said  the  host,  after  he  had  closed  the 
door,  "  I  know  you  must  feel  that  you  have  found  an 
insecure  lodging  for  the  night.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  help 
this  noisy  creature  from  visiting  me  in  this  way.  I  must 
tell  you,  and  I  believe  you,"  looking  straight  at  the  dig- 
nified stranger,  who  had  his  hand  on  the  "  Herone  et 


STXAA'GERS  AArD   FELLOW-CITIZENS.          41 

Leandro,"  -  "  I  believe  you  are  a  gentleman  of  intel- 
ligence ;  this  woman  is  —  or  rather  let  me  begin  with  my- 
self—  I  am  not  of  her  faith,  as  you  see.  She  was  my 
only  help  and  the  child's  guardian,  while  I  looked  after 
the  herds.  I  resolved  yesterday  to  dismiss  her.  You 
may  not  share  my  opinions  about  matters  of  faith  and 
doctrine,  but  I  am  not  a  believer  in  Saint  Bridget,  nor 
do  I  fear  her  influence  with  my  cows.  This  woman  had 
begun  to  teach  my  little  child  what  are  to  me  the  super- 
stitions of  men." 

Caspar  had  gone  farther  than  he  had  meant  to  go. 
These  men  might  be  spies,  the  forerunners  of  another  of 
Leo's  legions  of  extermination.  He  saw  it  all;  but  he 
faltered  not.  He  was  about  to  tell  them  what  had  oc- 
curred, when  the  man,  whose  hand  had  rested  uneasily 
upon  the  book,  spoke,  — 

"  My  worthy  host,  will  you  fear  not  ?  But  —  you  are 
a  Waldensian  !  " 

"  I  am"  answered  Caspar,  and  he  looked  the  heroic 
soul  he  was,  —  "I  am  ;  and  I  am  so  much  a  hater  of 
these  monkish  mutterings,  that  when  this  woman  sat 
milking  in  the  cow-house,  saying, '  God  and  Saint  Bridget 
bless  you  !  '  in  order  that  she  might  save  her  head  and 
the  milk,  I  resolved  to  do  the  milking  myself." 

The  stranger  was  astonished  at  his  humorous  and  vig- 
orous language,  and  again  the  press-room  of  Aldus  came 
before  his  eyes ;  but  he  took  up  the  other  picture  with 
Saint  Bridget  in  the  foreground. 

"  I  shall  be  permitted  to  say  that  your  confession  of 
faith  is  safe  in  my  keeping.  We  are  not  spies  of  the 
Holy  Church ;  and  on  my  soul,  I  am  glad  to  be  lost,  if 
I  may  stay  with  such  a  frank  heretic  until  morning.  I 
can  imagine  that  one  who  cares  for  a  thing  of  this  kind," 
holding  up  the  book,  "cannot  fear  the  maledictions  of 
Saint  Bridget." 

Caspar  had  forgotten  to  put  this  book  back  in  its 


42  MOM  A.\'J.)   K  \IGHT 

place,  with  other  most  precious  volumes;  and  he  was 
disconcerted  when  he  saw  the  excited  eye  of  his  guest, 
as  he  held  the  little  volume  in  his  trembling  hand.  The 
mountaineer  now  became  quite  oblivious  of  the  incident 
with  the  discharged  servant,  though  he  knew  such  an 
event  as  her  discharge  would  probably  arouse  the  priests 
to  arrange  another  attack.  He  was  fascinated  with  the 
sight  of  a  man  who  understood  the  significance  of  such 
a  fact  as  the  discovery  of  that  book  in  these  scenes ; 
he  was  also  sure  that  he  had  seen  that  same  eye  kindle 
at  least  once  before  amidst  associations  of  learning. 
For  the  moment  Caspar  was  tongue-tied.  He  did  not 
dare  to  ask  the  name  of  his  guest ;  and  he  had  re- 
solved to  hide  his  own  identity,  if  possible.  Surely  there 
was  enough  beside  their  own  names  which  these  two 
men  could  talk  about. 

*  \Vill  you  let  me  know  just  where  we  are?  "  asked  the 
youth.  "  We  set  out  from  Turin  ;  and  we  are  only  sure 
of  one  thing,  that  we  are  glad  to  be  here,  although,  as  my 
master  says,  we  are  lost  in  the  mountains." 

par  quickly  saw  that  here  were  a  scholar  and  his 
student,  who  were  gracefully  accepting  the  inevitable  an- 
noyances of  such  an  experience ;  and  he  was  resolved 
to  be  interesting  and  instructive  as  far  as  possible.  He 
summoned  his  rusty  scholarship  to  the  task. 

"  This  mountain,"  said  he,  "  is  the  Vesulus  of  Virgil. 
Do  you  remember?" 

"  Indeed  !  "  interrupted  the  master ;  and  with  great- 
est interest  he  quoted  the  words, — 

.  De  Montibus  altis 

Actus  aper,  multa  Vesulus  quern  pinifer  annos 
Defendit." 

Caspar  was  now  sorry  that  he  had  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  conceal  his  identity ;  but  it  was  evident  that  the 
scholar  wished  to  remain  unknown  to  his  host.  Truly 
there  never  had  been  an  hour  in  the  life  of  this  kindly  host 


STRANGERS  AND  FELLOW-CITIZENS.          43 

when  he  wanted  so  badly  to  break  every  law  of  courtesy 
and  ask  for  a  name. 

"  You  beheld  the  summit  on  the  left,  as  you  came  out 
of  Turin?"  said  Gaspar. 

"  Yes  ;  and  we  are  now  a  long  distance  from  our  route 
toward  England,"  answered  the  youth. 

"We  are  not  far  from  good  things,"  said  his  master; 
and  turning  to  the  mountaineer,  he  asked,  "  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  a  manuscript  of  Virgil,  in  the  Capuchin 
Monastery  on  the  hill?" 

"  I  have  heard  of  nothing  from  the  priests,  save  what  I 
learned  from  one,  a  Venetian,  a  noble  man,  who  did  love 
books  and  detest  monkish  fables,  who  died  of  wounds 
when  I  lost  my  boy." 

"  Ah,  good  man,  your  own  son?  Do  not  allow  us  to 
invade  your  private  woes.  But  it  is  a  fresh  sorrow,  I  am 
sure." 

Gaspar  had  found  intellectual  and  spiritual  sym- 
pathy at  the  same  moment ;  and  anxious  as  he  was 
to  hide  his  own  name,  he  told  the  story  of  the  attack 
of  the  French  cohorts  of  the  Pope  and  of  the  capture 
of  Ami. 

Tears  coursed  down  cheeks  which  in  biographical  por- 
traiture have  never  been  celebrated  for  the  presence 
of  anything  like  tears  upon  them.  A  heart  which  often 
seems  to  the  reader  of  his  .life  strangely  empty  of  human 
sympathy,  responded  to  this  tale,  especially  when  the 
mountaineer  seemed  to  forget  his  surroundings,  and 
said,  — 

"I  hoped  to  see  my  boy  a  great  printer,  like  Aldus 
Manutius,  and  I  was  promised  a  manuscript  of  Virgil  by 
Fra  Latrano ;  but  the  boy  is  dead,  and  the  monks  have 
concealed  the  parchment."  - 

"My  dear  man,"  said  the  scholar,  "our  lives  have 
met  at  vital  and  exciting  points.  I  have  journeyed  many 
miles  - —  I  beg  you,  do  not  ask  my  name  —  with  this  my 


44  MONK  A\D   KNIGHT. 

youthful  student  to  find  and  copy  that  very  parchment. 
I  have  letters  from  Pope  Julius  II." 

••  Ah,"  said  Caspar,  "  we  fear  those  who  carry  the 
messages  or  commands  of  his  Holiness  ;  they  are  swords 
for  our  hearts  ! "  and  he  listened,  as  often  had  the  Pied- 
montese,  to  hear  the  shouts  of  persecuting  cavalry. 

••  I  do  not  like  a  state  of  things  in  which  an  honest 
man  who  loves  books  trembles  for  his  life,"  said  the 
master. 

"  But  books  and  honesty  are  dangerous  companions 
now  in  these  mountains.  I  could  wish  you  were  where 
you  might  not  be  murdered,  at  any  moment,  for  the 
crime  of  simply  saying  what  you  have  said.  That  is 
called  heresy  in  these  mountains,"  answered  the  host. 

"  It  is  heresy,  damnable  heresy,"  said  the  scholar,  "  to 
stifle  honest  thinking,  to  seize  a  child,  carry  him  off  to 
death,  and  hide  the  literature  of  Greece  and  Rome." 

Caspar  felt  the  breath  of  both  the  Renaissance  and 
the  Reformation  in  his  humble  home.  He  knew  he  was 
entertaining  a  great  man ;  but  he  saw  what  the  world  was 
soon  to  find  out,  —  that  this  man's  interest  was  in  ideas 
and  in  scholarship,  rather  than  in  purposes  and  deeds. 

Could  it  be  that  this  man  was  the  already  illustrious 
Erasmus  of  Rotterdam? 

"  Let  us  talk  of  the  manuscripts  in  the  morning,"  said 
the  tired  scholar,  feeling  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
rest,  but  feeling  still  more  keenly  that  he  had  another 
page  on  the  ignorance  of  monks,  which  he  would  not 
forget,  to  add  to  those  he  had  already  written  on  horse- 
back and  in  inns,  as  they  had  been  wandering  from  the 
route  toward  England. 

Caspar  could  not  sleep  that  night.  He  resolved  to 
tell  the  whole  story  of  priestcraft,  as  he  knew  it,  to  a  man 
whom  he  never  suspected  of  being  still  in  holy  orders, 
of  whom  he  had  no  slightest  hint  that  in  his  pockets 
were  pages,  closely  written,  crowded  with  such  satire  on 


STRANGERS  AND  FELLOW-CITIZENS.         45 

monks  as  would  make  the  world  laugh  and  grow  furious 
for  at  least  three  centuries. 

"  Certainly,"  he  thought,  "  I  can  find  out  what  is  doing 
in  the  world,  to  make  it  less  dark  and  less  superstitious 
and  cruel ;  I  will  get  this,  at  least,  from  my  guest  when 
he  wakes." 

Little  Alke  alone  slept  soundly. 

"Surely,"  said  the  sleepy  scholar,  "this  is  Perrin,  the 
best  printer  of  Venice.  He  was  the  pride  of  Aldus  Ma- 
nutius,  —  the  man  for  whom  he  is  yet  mourning,  the 
man  who  had  to  leave  Venice  to  keep  his  life,  the  man 
for  whose  blood  Count  Aldani  Neforzo  set  a  hundred 
priests  in  search.  I  can  comfort  him  on  the  morrow 
with  news  of  light.  A  better  day  is  dawning." 


CHAPTER   III. 

A   RECOGNIZED   GUEST. 

"  Far  o'er  the  steep  the  chalet  glances  dim, 
Through  clouds  that  gather  on  the  glacier's  rim, 
And  here  a  cataract  in  maniac  wrath 
And  share  of  foam  ploughs  up  its  furious  path, 
But  drained  from  fountains  of  eternal  snow, 
Converts  to  flowers  the  verdant  vale  below." 

M<  )RNIN(;,  as  splendid  as  the  fairest  dream,  broke 
upon  the  mountains.  Far  and  wide  the  daytime 
unfurled  radiant  banners  upon  the  everlasting  hills,  and 
the  valleys  were  vast  basins  full  of  purple  and  crimson 
light.  Monte  Viso,  white  and  inaccessible,  caught  the 
whole  pageant,  and  detained  it  long  upon  her  fiery  crest. 
Lonely  and  majestic,  Mont  Cenis  answered  with  streamers 
of  light.  The  great  river  shone  like  a  flashing  streak  of 
gold.  The  pines,  of  which  Virgil  sang,  were  hung  with 
silver.  Bells  tinkled  on  the  resonant  air,  and  their  music 
floated  upward  along  the  glassy  steeps  of  hard  snow. 
Everything  became  sublime  to  Caspar,  as  he  walked  to 
the  cow-shed  without  a  fear  of  Saint  Bridget  in  his  ample 
soul. 

When  the  scholar  had  risen  and  made  himself  ready 
for  the  day's  journey,  he  found  that  the  "  Herone  et  I.ean- 
dro"  had  disappeared  ;  and  he  discovered  further,  to  his 
soul's  amazement,  that  a  copy  of  the  "  Dante  "  of  1481, 


A   RECOGNIZED   GUEST. 


47 


by  Baldini,  occupied  its  place,  next  to  the  bowl,  which 
had  been  washed  thoroughly  in  the  mean  time. 

"  We  are  in  the  home  of  a  most  remarkable  man," 
said  the  master  to  his  pupil,  —  for  such  he  was ;  "  and  I 
am  confounded  by  the  appearance  of  this  '  Dante.'  I 
had  as  soon  expected  a  ghost." 

The  pupil  said  nothing,  for  he  was  still  asleep;  and 
the  scholar  soon  saw  that  little  Alke  and  he  were  dividing 
sweetmeats  at  the  feast  of  slumber. 

The  nervous  scholar,  however,  chattered  on  :  "  These 
marks  are  such  as  nobody  but  a  Waldensian  would 
make.  Every  line  which  scores  the  priests  is  noted ; 
every  page  which  stabs  the  Church  is  dog's-eared.  A 
scholar  and  a  heretic  ! "  and  his  eye  then  rested  upon 
that  page  in  which  Dante  describes  Benedict  among 
the  heads  of  the  Holy  Church :  — 

•'  .  .  .  My  rule 

Is  left  a  profitless  stain  upon  the  leaves; 
The  walls,  for  abbeys  reared,  turned  into  dens  ; 
The  cowls  to  sacks  are  choked  up  with  musty  meal. 
Foul  usury  doth  not  more  lift  itself 
Against  God's  pleasure,  than  that  fruit  which  makes 
The  hearts  of  nlonks  so  wanton." 

When  Caspar  came  in,  with  a  pail  so  full  of  milk  that 
it  was  a  task  to  keep  the  treasure  within  its  bounds,  the 
scholar  saluted  him  with  such  attentive  courtesy  as  made 
Caspar  feel  again  the  atmosphere  of  the  Venetian  printing- 
room  ;  and  instead  of  saying  the  pleasant  things  he  had 
resolved  upon  in  the  cow-house,  he  stood  perfectly  silent, 
with  the  smells  of  the  stable  upon  him,  the  bucket  still  in 
his  hand,  while  before  his  brain  came  the  scene  in  the 
house  of  Aldus  that  night  in  1503,  on  which  the  great 
printer  received  word  that  the  "  Hercules  Furens "  of 
Euripides  had  been  discovered.  The  second  volume  of 
the  Euripides  had  gone  to  press.  The  printer  was  beset 
with  doubt  as  to  the  genuineness  of  the  manuscript,  and 
as  to  the  advisability  of  including  the  play  in  that  edition. 


48  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Caspar  still  held  to  the  milk-pail,  and  stood  stupidly, 
as  it  afterward  seemed  to  him,  staring  backward  over 
the  years  and  into  the  fine  face  of  Aldus.  He  was  re- 
membering how  much  Aldus  desired  on  that  night  the 
privilege  of  a  single  hour  with  that  manuscript  in  the 
presence  of  Erasmus.  And  now  Caspar  really  believed 
that  Erasmus  was  bowing  to  him  in  his  own  cottage. 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  find  Saint  Bridget  interfering 
with  the  heels  of  your  cows,"  said  the  scholarly  stranger. 

••No,"  answered  the  new  milkmaid,  "  Saint  Bridget 
seems  to  have  left  the  premises.     The  udders  of  the 
were  never  more  full." 

The  morning  meal  was  excellent,  if  the  eating  could 
be  regarded  as  proof  of  the  pudding.  Alke  \\ 
smiled,  and  prattled,  while  the  scholar  tried  to  be  pleas- 
ant to  the  little  one,  and  at  the  same  time  to  discover 
the  name  of  this  interesting  man.  Never  did  two  men 
more  laboriously  seek  to  remain  unrecognized  each  to  the 
other;  never  istless  sympathies  rendering  the 

accomplishment  of  such  an  end  less  probable.  They 
fully  canvassed  the  subject  of  the  manuscripts,  until  it  was 
evident  that  for  some  reason  the  stranger  wanted  to  drop 
the  subject. 

"Your  mountain  has  been  celebrated  by  Virgil,  and 
Dante  has  come  into  your  cottage,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Yes,'  answered  the  host.  "  Virgil  and  Dante  were 
both  prophets,  though  one  was  a  Pagan  and  the  other  a 
Christian.  When  I  was  once  in  Mantua,  I  heard  the  ser- 
vice in  church  on  St.  Paul's  day.  You  know  the  hymn 
which  contains  Saint  Paul's  words,  spoken  when  he 
looked  at  Virgil's  tomb :  — 

1  Ad  Maronis  Mausoleum 
Ductus,  fudit  super  eum 
Piae  rorem  lacrvmae ; 
Quern  te,  inqint  reddidissem 
Si  te  vivum  inven 
Poetarum  niaxime.' 


A   RECOGNIZED   GUEST.  49 

Virgil  could  never  have  written  the  fourth  eclogue 
without  having  read  Isaiah.  Dante  is  like  enough  to 
that  Hebrew  iconoclast.  I  was  told  by  one  who  knows 
the  painter  that  when  somebody  upbraided  Michael  An- 
gelo  for  sketching  Julius,  the  Holy  Father,  in  hell  on  the 
ceiling  of  his  own  chapel,  he  replied  that  Dante  had  done 
as  ill  by  putting  a  pope  in  hell  in  his  poetry.  The  change 
which  Dante  prophesies  may  be  almost  as  great  as  that 
which  Virgil  saw  coming." 

"  Scarcely,"  said  the  conservative  stranger.  "  One 
was  the  dawn  of  a  new  faith;  this  will  be  only  a  peace- 
ful transformation  of  opinions  about  the  old  one." 

"It  is  not  peaceful  here,"  said  Caspar;  and  he  held 
up  his  arms  hacked  by  the  butchers  who  had  torn  away 
his  child. 

"  I  sympathize  with  you,"  replied  the  scholar,  with  that 
same  halting,  equivocal,  rationalistic  fervor  which  never 
allowed  him  either  to  spare  the  Holy  Church  or  to  ac- 
cept the  cause  of  the  Reformers,  —  "I  sympathize  with 
you  in  your  sufferings,  but  the  reform  must  come  slowly." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  an  avalanche  move  slowly?"  asked 
the  Waldensian.  "  Friend  !  there  are  too  many  winds  in 
the  mountains,  and  great  steeps  running  downward  into 
untold  depths.  This  avalanche  which  has  been  loosened 
will  not  stop  for  anything." 

"  Do  you  believe  an  avalanche  is  really  loosened,  that 
the  Church  and  the  world  are  to  suffer  from  a  revolu- 
tion ?  "  asked  the  stranger,  as  he  put  particular  emphasis 
on  the  suffering  which  would  come  with  such  an  event  as 
Caspar  seemed  to  contemplate. 

A  peculiar  gesture  made  Caspar  sure  that  he  was 
entertaining  Erasmus.  The  earnest  Waldensian  felt  now 
that  the  moment  had  come.  He  had  forgotten  about 
the  manuscripts  for  which  this  scholar  and  his  student 
had  travelled  to  Turin;  and  now  he  believed  that  he 
could  compel  his  guest  to  disclose  his  name.  He  stepped 
VOL.  i.  —  4 


5O  JAM'A'  A\D  K'NIGHT. 

to  a  little  box  which  had  served  as  a  trunk  in  his  travels 
from  Venice  to  his  mountain  home ;  and  he  seized  with 
trembling  hands  a  book  which  he  held  up  before  the 
gaze  of  the  wondering  men. 

"  This,"  said  he,  as  Alke  toddled  between  his  legs 
laughing  and  chattering,  —  "  this  is  enough  to  break  the 
ice-bands  which  hold  a  glacier.  A  man  who  writes  a 
book  like  this  in  these  times  cannot  help  but  expect  a 
revolution.  Enough  energy  is  here  to  change  things. 
For  these  opinions  stood  my  father  and  his  friends.  \Ve 
been  ignorant ;  this  book  is  scholarly.  But  Peter 
\Valdu  of  Lyons  saw  this  truth;"  and  then  the  moun- 
taineer read  with  a  voice  which  had  echoed  through  the 
mountains,  the  brilliant,  sword-like  sentences  which  filled 
the  air  of  that  room  with  lightning  flashes. 

No  book  could  have  so  unfitted  the  scholar  for  an 
argument.  How  quickly  he  recognized  the  phrases  !  It 
was  bewildering;  but  more,  he  was  both  deeply  an- 
noyed and  altogether  amazed.  The  red  flush  came  into 
his  thin  cheeks  as  Caspar  read  the  passages  which  left 
much  of  the  machinery  of  the  Holy  Church  quite  out 
of  account  in  the  development  of  the  Christian  life. 
At  length  Caspar  reached  these  sentences :  "  The  most 
acceptable  service  which  you  can  offer  to  the  Virgin 
Mary  is  to  endeavor  to  imitate  her  humility.  If  you 
must  adore  the  bones  of  Saint  Paul  locked  up  in  a 
casket,  adore  also  the  spirit  of  Saint  Paul  which  shines 
forth  from  his  writings." 

His  voice  sounded  like  a  trumpet.  The  scholar  rose 
and  walked  to  the  closed  door.  Was  it  an  effort  to  have 
him  tell  his  name,  or  to  criticise  his  attitude  toward  the 
Reformers  ? 

ling  could  have  more  thoroughly  distinguished  the 

two  men  than  this  fact,  — whenever  the  mountaineer  read 

which  Platonic  ideas  of  human  nature  or 

the  Roman  stoicism  figured,  the  guest  was  at  ease ;  but 


A   RECOGNIZED   GUEST.  51 

it  was  then  that  the  host  hurried  on  to  the  sentences 
which  described  the  follies  and  disgraces  of  monkish  life. 
One  saw  the  morning  through  his  brain,  and,  like  a 
Hamlet,  found  his  intellectual  powers  extracting  the 
energy  from  his  will ;  the  other  saw  it  through  his  con- 
science, and  was  at  once  an  heroic  soldier  of  reform. 

Caspar,  still  standing,  read  this  passage  with  much 
force  :  "  Tell  me  not  this  is  charity,  to  be  constant  at 
church,  to  prostrate  yourself  before  the  images  of  saints, 
to  burn  wax  candles,  and  to  chant  prayers.  God  has  no 
need  of  these  things.  What  Paul  calls  charity  is  to  edify 
your  neighbor,  to  esteem  all  men  members  of  the  same 
body,  to  think  all  are  one  in  Christ,  to  rejoice  in  the 
Lord  at  your  brother's  welfare  as  if  it  were  your  own,  to 
remedy  his  misfortunes  as  if  they  too  were  your  own, 
to  correct  the  erring  gently,  to  instruct  the  ignorant,  to 
raise  the  fallen,  to  comfort  the  cast-down,  to  assist  them 
that  are  in  trouble,  to  succor  them  that  are  in  want ;  in 
fine,  to  direct  all  your  powers,  all  your  zeal,  all  your 
care  to  this  end,  —  to  do  good  in  Christ  in  all  to  whom 
you  can  do  good,  in  order  that  as  he  was  neither  born 
nor  lived  nor  died  to  himself,  but  gave  himself  wholly 
for  our  advantage,  so  we  also  may  serve  our  brother's 
needs  and  not  our  own.  Were  this  so,  there  would  be  no 
kind  of  life  more  happy  or  more  pleasant  than  that  of 
those  who  have  set  themselves  apart  for  the  service  of 
religion ;  which  now,  on  the  contrary,  we  find  to  be 
severe  and  toilsome,  and  filled  with  Jewish  superstitions, 
nor  free  from  any  of  the  vices  of  the  outer  world ;  in 
some  respects  it  is  even  more  deeply  stained." 

"What,"  said  the  reader,  —  " what  can  stop  the  storm 
which  those  facts  and  truths  will  bring  forth  ?  " 

At  this  the  stranger  seemed  entirely  disconcerted ;  and 
he  said  nervously,  "  That  is  a  strange  book." 

"Yes,"  replied  Perrin ;  "it  is  the  kind  of  book  which 
I  would  expect  a  scholar  to  write.  All  the  forces  of 


52  J/aVA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

scholarship  have  been  melting  the  ice.  The  Church 
has  been  weakening  in  her  authority  before  the  advanc- 
ing noonday  which  scholars  have  inaugurated  by  bringing 
in  r.reece  and  Rome  upon  her.  It  does  not  tell  all  the 
truth  ;  but  this  book  means  everything  to  me." 

In  excellent  humor  as  he  was,  Caspar  looked  the 
listener  in  the  face,  and  saw  that  he  was  excited  and 
perplexed. 

"  It  is  full  of  the  kind  of  revolution  which  I  see  plainly 
that  you  are  afraid  of.  Did  you  ever  read  it?"  gravely 
queried  the  Waldensian. 

He  handed  the  volume  to  the  scholar,  and  watched  his 
shrewd  look ;  but  the  mountaineer  had  the  victory.  It 
was  a  copy  of  the  « Enchiridion,"  — "  The  Christian 
Soldier's  Dagger,"  —  written,  as  they  both  knew,  by 
Desiderius  Erasmus. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  oppressive  silence  before 
Caspar  went  out  to  help  the  youth  with  his  horses.  The 
man  who  had  just  ordered  them  for  the  day's  journey  did 
not  know  whether  he  wanted  to  go  or  stay.  He  had 
promised  the  youth  not  to  reveal  his  identity.  I  \ 

cd  upon  one  thing  more,  to  say  nothing  further 
about  the  manuscript  to  his  host,  unless  the  subject  came 
up  without  his  effort.  True,  he  was  disappointed  at  not 
finding  it.  They  had  travelled  a  long  distance,  and  on 
the  day  before,  they  had  been  badly  treated  by  the 
Capuchin  monks,  who,  while  they  respected  the  Pope's 
letter,  could  not  bring  themselves  to  tolerate  this  particu- 
lar guest.  Nevertheless,  the  elder  of  the  two  travellers 
concluded  not  to  refer  to  the  subject.  His  mind  was 
sufficiently  employed  on  other  matters.  He  must  at  once 
set  out  toward  England. 

He  had  fallen  quite  in  love  with  this  man  and  his  cot- 
tage.    There  was  an  honest  nobility  in  that  curious  cot 
tager  ;  and  the  little  girl  was  beautiful.     As  they  came  to 
the  door  with  the  horses,  Caspar  saw  him  kiss  little  Alkc. 


A   RECOGNIZED   GUEST.  53 

"  What  will  this  child  do,  if  this  spiritual  avalanche  does 
sweep  over  Europe  ?  "  thought  the  scholar ;  and  the  child 
smiled  upon  him  as  he  took  the  "  Dante  "  out  of  the  lit- 
tle hands  into  which  it  had  found  its  way,  and  placed 
there  instead  four  bright  coins. 

"  We  are  ready  for  the  day's  journey,"  said  the  youth, 
as  he  entered  the  cottage  and  found  the  scholar  bundled 
up  as  well  as  he  might  be  for  such  a  contest  with  snow 
and  cold. 

"Scarcely  ready,"  said  the  other,  "until  this  most 
worthy  man  is  paid  as  we  cannot  pay  him." 

"  I  am  remunerated,"  said  Caspar,  "  by  the  honor  you 
have  done  me.  I  am  more  than  paid  by  the  presence  of 
so  much  learning  and  companionship.  Possibly  you  may 
yet  obtain  that  manuscript  of  Virgil.  We  may  never  see 
each  other  again.  With  this  food,  and  these  notes  for 
your  guidance  which  I  have  written,  —  for  your  route  is 
difficult,  —  I  enclose  a  hope  that  you  will  still  melt  the  ice 
and  help  to  loosen  the  avalanche." 

"What,  man?  "  said  the  scholar.  "You  still  interest 
and  perplex  me.  What  can  you  signify?  " 

The  mountaineer  smiled  upon  the  disconcerted  scholar, 
as  he  slowly  said,  "  It  is  a  grave  and  shining  hour,  Mas- 
ter !  You  will  have  your  part  to  act  in  this  tragedy.  It 
would  be  a  comedy,  only  a  feeble  comedy,  if  it  were 
only  what  you  seem  to  expect.  Scholar,  and  illustrious 
scholar  that  you  are  —  " 

"  No  ;  you  must  not  mistake  me." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  the  host,  as  the  scholar  mounted  his 
horse.  "  I  was  in  the  room  of  Aldus  once,  and  with  you, 
I  saw  that  Lucca  manuscript.  Farewell,  Erasmus  !  " 

Caspar  was  right. 

The  scholar  smiled,  pulled  the  rein,  stopped  his  horse 
for  another  instant,  and  said,  "  Farewell,  and  Heaven  keep 
you  and  your  child,  Caspar  Perrin  !  " 


CHAPTER   IV. 

AT  AN   ENGLISH   Al 

"  All  is  silent  now,  —  silent  the  bell 
That,  heard  from  yonder  ivied  turret  h 
Warned  the  cowled  brother  from  his  midnight  cell; 
Silent  the  vesper  chant,  —  the  Litany, 
Responsive  to  the  organ  :  scattered  lie 
The  wrecks  of  the  proud  pile,  mid  arches 
While  hollow  winds  through  mantling  ivy  sigh  ; 
And  even  the  mouldering  shrine  is  rent  a 
\\hcre  in  the  warrior  weeds  the  British  Arthur  lay. 


and  lustrous  was  the  sky  which  hung  over 
Clastonbury  Abbey.  Weary  and  silent  wore  the 
two  illustrious  friends  who  toiled  along,  making  on  foot 
the  last  miles  of  a  journey  which  stretched  from 
bridge  itself  to  Salisbury  Plain,  and  thence  to  the  anrient 
seat  of  St.  Dunstan.  They  had  tarried  for  three  days 
at  Stonehenge,  leaving  their  horses  and  attendant  ;  and 
they  proposed  to  return  to  the  interesting  ruins  as  soon 
as  this  long-expected  visit  to  the  famous  abbey  might 
be  concluded.  As  they  journeyed  along,  the  hitherto 
delicate  health  of  Erasmus  seemed  to  be  improving; 
and  it  was  with  a  delightful  pride  that  Thomas  More, 
at  whose  house  he  had  remained  many  days,  beheld 
a  flush  of  growing  strength  upon  the  white  and  hollow 
•  -hecks  of  his  friend.  Long  as  had  been  the  way  from 
the  cottage  of  Caspar  Perrin  in  the  mountains  to  Cam- 


AT  AN  ENGLISH  ABBEY.  55 

bridge,  the  fact  that  the  scholar  had  anticipated  lodging 
with  one  who  was  so  soon  to  take  his  place  among  the 
worthiest  sons  of  fame  as  Sir  Thomas  More,  quickened 
his  pace  and  made  the  route  delightful.  He  had  finished 
the  "  Praise  of  Folly "  at  More's  house ;  and  the  result 
had  proved  how  exhaustive  upon  Erasmus  had  been 
even  the  fun  and  discussion  which,  evening  after  even- 
ing, its  fresh  pages  had  produced,  as  they  had  talked 
it  over  together. 

Erasmus  had  often  been  invited  to  Glastonbury  with 
any  friend  whom  he  might  desire  to  bring  with  him ; 
but  this  invitation  had  come  in  days  when  there  was  less 
interest  in  England  in  what  had  come  to  be  called  the 
"  influence  of  the  new  learning."  More  had  insisted 
upon  this  journey  as  a  holiday,  and  had  so  held  before 
his  scholarly  eye  the  prospect  of  seeing  a  monument 
of  Druidical  worship  at  Stonehenge  on  their  way,  and 
a  recently  obtained  manuscript  of  the  Roman  age  at 
Glastonbury  Abbey,  as  to  effect  his  desire  with  his  guest. 
They  had  enjoyed  the  pilgrimage,  and  Erasmus  was 
certainly  stronger. 

Long  and  interesting  as  had  been  their  conversation 
concerning  Stonehenge,  the  Druids  and  the  Belgae,  and 
the  tradition  which  makes  the  ruin  which  they  had  left 
behind  a  relic  of  Ambrosius,  it  was  brief  and  spiritless 
enough  as  compared  to  that  which  they  held  when  the 
noble  walls  of  the  Western  Lady  Chapel  had,  after  a 
memorable  visit  with  the  Abbot  Richard  Beere,  faded 
from  their  eyes  and  taken  their  places  in  the  memory 
of  these  men. 

Abbot  Richard  had  long  been  anxious  to  entertain 
Erasmus,  whom  a  short  time  before  he  had  met  at  the 
court  of  Henry  VII.;  and  strangely  enough,  when  the 
unexpected  guest  whom  Erasmus  had  brought  with  him 
at  the  entrance  of  the  guest-house  had  received  the  kiss 
of  peace  by  the  hospitaller  who  was  known  as  Brother 


56  MONK  AND    KNIGHT. 

:•!,  the  eyes  of  the  intrepid  Thomas  More  recognized 
host  the  very  man  who  in  Parliament  had  watched 
him  so  intently,  when,  as  a  beardless  boy,  in  1504,  he  had 
thwarted  the  plans  of  the  king  for  a  heavy  subsidy.  The 
abbot  gracefully  acknowledged  his  joy  at  their  arrival, 
and  even  playfully  referred  to  the  first  meeting  of  Eras- 
mus and  the  already  eminent  young  statesman. 

"  I  was  present,"  said  he,  with  pardonable  pride,  "  at 
the  Lord  Mayor's  table  not  long  ago,  and  had  the  good 
fortune  to  start  the  argument  in  which  you  found  each 
other  out." 

"  How  was  that?  "  quickly  asked  Erasmus. 

"Well,"  said  the  abbot,  "your  own  soul  may  be 
absorbed  in  study,  to  the  joy  or  anxiety  of  all  England 
lie  enlightenment  of  the  world,  but  you  must  not 
forget  that  occurrence.  You  remember  it,  I  am  sure." 

And  instantly  it  all  came  back  to  the  scholar,  —  the 
heat  of  that  debate,  the  silence  at  the  table,  the  evident 
concern  of  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the  two  short  memo- 
rable sentences :  "  Aut  tu  es  Monis,  aut  nullus  !  "  cried 
out  Erasmus.  "  Aut  tu  es  Erasmus,  aut  diabolus  !  "  ex- 
claimed More. 

It  was  easy,  after  such  a  beginning,  for  the  conversation 
to  glide  along  pleasantly.  Behind  it  all,  however,  there 
was  a  distinct  reserve  upon  the  part  of  the  Abbot  of 
Glastonbury,  whenever  the  state  of  the  Church  or  the 
condition  of  English  scholarship  became  its  topic.  The 
learned  Richard  Beere,  powerful  and  yet  timid,  had  be- 
come a  conservative.  He  knew  that  Thomas  More  had 
been  rightly  accused  of  the  dreadful  sin  of  once  having 
been  devoted  to  the  life  of  a  monk,  and  of  having  fallen 
from  a  condition  of  ascetic  rapture.  He  also  remem- 
bered —  for  he  had  talked  it  over  with  no  less  a  person 
than  Thomas  Wolsey  at  London  —  that  Erasmus  was  the 
head  and  front  of  what  was  called  "  the  humanistic 
movement,"  and.  further,  that  it  was  conceived  to  be 


AT  AN  ENGLISH  ABBEY.  57 

the  influence  of  Erasmus,  who  was  ten  years  older  than 
More,  which  had  plunged  the  latter  so  deeply  into  what 
was  called  "  the  new  learning." 

Richard  Beere  had  once  been  very  friendly  with  Eras- 
mus, but  he  now  began  to  foresee  consequences,  flowing 
from  his  influence  upon  English  thought,  which  were 
certain  to  unseat  abbots  and  work  undesired  changes 
in  the  ecclesiastical  life  of  the  realm.  However,  he 
usually  regained  his  feet  in  threading  the  difficulties 
which  conversation  opened,  and  became  loquacious 
enough,  when  he  sought  to  illustrate  the  history  and 
grandeur  of  Glastonbury  Abbey  to  two  such  scholars. 
He  was  proud  of  the  sacred  pile,  and  he  was  so  wedded 
to  institutionalism  that  he  could  not  conceive  of  souls  so 
strong  in  themselves  as  not  to  lose  all  thought  of  the 
value  of  the  individual  beneath  a  revered  shadow. 

"Possibly,"  said  he  to  his  friendly  adviser,  Brother 
Lysand,  "  these  very  heretics,  if  such  they  really  be,  may 
be  drawn  back  to  .love,  as  never  before,  the  warm 
breasts  of  the  Holy  Mother." 

Abbot  Richard  had  given  instructions  that  the  dinner 
should  be  delayed  until  the  expected  guest  might  arrive ; 
and  now  the  great  refectory,  which  had  so  often  been 
crowded  with  as  many  as  five  hundred  guests,  —  a  hall 
whose  entertainment  and  board  had  been  so  often  abused 
by  the  representatives  of  decayed  titles  with  their  mul- 
titudinous retinues,  —  opened  its  spacious  doors  with 
welcome  to  these  two  visitors.  The  two  flights  of  stairs 
soon  became  two  avenues  filled  with  monks  issuing  from 
the  cloisters ;  and  as  they  entered  the  lavatory  to  per- 
form their  ablutions,  Erasmus  turned  to  More  and  said 
in  a  low  voice,  — 

"Think  of  the  number  of  men  and  of  the  amount 
of  masculine  energy  of  which  monasticism  has  robbed 
the  world." 

"  Probably  they  would  have  amounted  to  but  little  if 


58  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

they  had  been   out   of  this   solemn  prison,"  answered 
More. 

:ieir  life  is  worthless  now,  certainly.  The  world 
would  be  poorer  with  them,  if  they  were  let  in  upon  it, 
now  that  monkish  mortification  has  extracted  their  man- 
hood. But  it  has  been  a  crime  to  withdraw  from  the 
world's  work  these  vast  armies  of  well-bred,  healthful, 
and  oftentimes  devoted  young  men,  who,  since  the  days 
of  Saint  Anthony,  have  filled  these  monasteries  and 
abbeys,  and  who  have  been  rendered  ignorant,  super- 
stitious, and  immoral." 

More  was  surprised  to  hear  his  friend  —  who,  though 
often  anticipating  great  changes  in  the  Church,  had  al- 
favured  peace  at  any  price  —  speak  so  strongly; 
and  he  was  about  to  tell  him  as  much,  when  the  sub- 
prior  rang  the  bell.  The  abbot 'drew  them  to  a  table  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  room ;  and  they  were  seated,  one 
on  his  right,  the  other  on  his  left,  near  the  priors  and 
the  other  heads  of  the  abbey. 

Scarcely  had  the  bell  been  rung,  when  the  monks 
appeared,  each  bowing  to  the  high  table.  More  thought, 
with  displeasure,  that  he  had  once  been  devoted  to  such 
useless  genuflections.  Erasmus  remembered  his  own 
effort  to  drown  the  scholar  within  his  own  breast  in 
a  monastery  near  Delft. 

The  sub- prior  gave  bidding;  seats  were  taken.  Wearily 
did  they  sing  the  words  of  a  psalm  which  in  the  real 
world  would  have  sung  itself  into  an  anthem.  \Yith 
;ne  mechanism  the  brief  service  was  performed, 
and  the  benediction  was  over.  In  a  sepulchral  voice,  an 
asthmatic  old  monk,  who  now  and  then  looked  away  over 
toward  the  guests  at  the  risk  of  losing  his  place,  began 
to  read  in  Latin  a  portion  of  the  New  Testament,  which 
portion  proved  to  be  of  sufficient  length  to  last  during  the 
entire  meal.  The  soup  had  been  uncovered  ;  the  cellarer 
was  bowed  in  and  out,  and  the  dinner  proceeded. 


AT  A  AT  ENGLISH  ABBEY.  59 

"  Who,  I  pray  you,"  said  More,  "  who  is  this  bright  boy 
who  seems  to  have  the  freedom  of  the  whole  abbey?" 

"  And  never  seems  to  abuse  it,"  added  Erasmus. 

"Ah!"  replied  the  abbot,  as  he  smiled  on  him  and 
gave  recognition  by  a  single  nod  of  the  head  to  one  of 
the  tables  of  the  priests,  near  which  the  boy  chanced  to 
be  standing,  "  that  child  may  at  some  time  be  Abbot 
of  Glastonbury."  The  abbot's  eyes  showed  the  pas- 
sionate fondness  of^  a  father  as  he  spoke.  "  He  is 
born  to  do  great  things  in  the  Holy  Church.  He  is 
a  grateful  child,  and  some  day  he  will  know  that  the 
Church  has  saved  him  from  an  abominable  life  and 
damnation." 

"  Was  he  some  bad  little  whelp  whom  you  picked  up 
in  his  villany?"  asked  Erasmus,  with  that  quiet  scorn 
and  biting  sarcasm  which  had  not  entirely  exhausted 
itself  in  writing  the  "  Praise  of  Folly." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  answered  the  abbot,  who  shrugged  his 
shoulders  ;  "  instead  of  that,  he  has  been  the  purest  and 
most  truthful  of  children ;  and  I  sometimes  feel  that  he 
cannot  —  " 

"You  do  not  mean,"  said  the  too  quick  and  keen 
Erasmus,  "  that  he  cannot  remain  pure  and  truthful  here 
in  this  holy  atmosphere?  " 

The  abbot  did  not  feel  the  sword-thrust  which  Eras- 
mus sent  into  the  word  "  holy ;  "  but  one  of  the  priests 
at  the  table  nudged  his  neighbor,  while  the  abbot  said, 
"  Quite  the  contrary ;  it  was  to  keep  him  innocent  and 
good  that  he  was  sent  hither." 

"  To  escape,  as  you  were  about  to  say,  a  severe  dam- 
nation?" cruelly  pursued  Erasmus. 

The  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  was  a  trifle  worried ;  but  he 
thought  the  whole  story  might  enable  him  to  extricate 
himself  from  toils  which  he  could  see  were  a  delight  to 
the  sly  and  witty  scholar.  The  child  had  moved  nearer 
to  their  table,  and  he  was  very  beautiful. 


CO  J/c'.VA'   .-/.\V>   A\\7G /f/\ 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  Abbot  Richard,  with  that  asser, 
iveness  with  which  special  and  desperate  pleading  always 
begins,  —  "  the  truth  is,  this  child  —  is  he  not  a  beautiful 
boy?  —  was  sent  hither  by  the  holy  friar  Noglas,  of 
Lutterworth.  His  father  died  only  last  year;  and  the 
child's  mother,  who  was  an  angel  of  mercy  and  a  lover 
of  the  Holy  Church,  survived  her  husband  but  a  month, 
i  I  could  think  well  of  the  boy's  father."  The 
abbot  shook  his  head  with  even'  additional  expression  of 
sadness.  "  He  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Infinite  Mercy  ;  and 
his  whole  fortune  was  divided,  in  order  that  incessant 
prayers  might  ascend  for  his  salvation.  The  remnant  of 
his  fortune  fell  into  the  hands  of  his  brother,  who  by  a 

icnt  has  been  enjoined  to  guard  it  and  to  pur 
the    books  —  O    :  \initatum  !  —  books    which 

William  Caxton  has  already  printed,  and — the  pity  is 
deeper  when  I  think  of  it  —  the  books  also  which  a  cer- 
tain Aldus  in  Venice  shall  print.  The  whole  remnant  of 
the  fortune  may  be  wasted  in  this  evil  way.  These  books 
and  some  worn  manuscripts,  which  we  have  good  cause 
to  suspect  are  vile  and  pernicious,  are  to  be  given  to  the 
boy  —  Vian  is  his  name  !  —  when  he  comes  to  later 
years.  The  boy's  surroundings  were  bad  enough  so  long 
as  his  father  lived.  The  holy  friar  Noglas  wrote  us  that 
his  father  actually  met,  at  hours  which  must  lead  to  sus- 
picion, with  those  detestable  and  godless  Lollards  of 
Lutterworth,  who,  since  the  days  of  the  arch-heretic 
John  Wycliffe,  have  beset  Lutterworth  with  ill.  To  save 
the  child,  his  mother  desired  him  to  be  sent  hither.  He 
is  our  child  ;  and  the  saints  forefend  us  against  misleading 
such  an  one." 

As  the  abbot  spoke,  More  remembered  a  home  which 
he  and  Erasmus  had  just  left,  the  beauty  of  which  history 
has  not  allowed  to  be  forgotten  ;  and  as  the  monks  who 
sat  near  were  silent,  he  thought  of  the  streams  of  father- 
hood which  had  been  imprisoned  within  the  walls  of  such 


AT  AN  ENGLISH  ABBEY.  6 1 

institutions,  and  that,  after  all,  it  was  not  strange  that, 
sacred  as  they  were,  they  bred  immoralities  and  abuses 
without  number. 

As  they  passed  by  the  seven  long  tables  at  which  stood 
the  priests  and  lay-brethren,  each  the  easy  master  of  im- 
pressive etiquette,  the  "  Miserere  "  was  sung ;  and  Vian 
came  close  to  the  abbot,  who  gently  stroked  his  forehead 
and  took  his  hand. 

In  the  morning  Erasmus  saw  the  boy  in  the  abbot's 
apartments,  and  was  amused  to  find  him  employing  him- 
self in  rubbing  a  piece  of  parchment  smooth  with  chalk 
and  pumice-stone,  —  articles  which  the  youth  speedily 
concealed  when  Abbot  Richard  entered.  The  reason  of 
this  instant  concealment  was  apparent  to  Erasmus  when 
the  abbot  had  sent  the  boy  on  an  unimportant  errand  to 
the  sacristy,  and  when  he  proceeded  to  say,  — 

"  The  chalk  on  the  youth's  frock  gives  me  pain." 

"The  child  will  probably  be  a  scholar,"  said  Erasmus, 
dryly. 

"  I  fear  that  he  will  be  misguided  by  those  who  have 
age  and  have  not  sufficient  faith." 

"  Age,"  said  the  scholar,  "  is  not  likely  to  destroy  actual 
faith;  it  does  often  dissolve  dreams,  however." 

"  Alas  !  men  oftener  lose  their  souls  with  losing  their 
dreams,"  replied  the  abbot.  "  We  are  losing  too  much 
and  too  rapidly.  The  Holy  Church  is  pursued  by  ene- 
mies who  ought  to  be  friends.  In  the  race  she  is  flinging 
aside  precious  garments,  and  will  soon  be  unclothed.  If 
I  had  my  way  at  Rome,  she  would  stop .  her  flight,  and 
even  with  the  points  of  swords,  turn  her  pursuers  back. 
I  do  not  like  to  have  Vian  copy  the  manuscripts  of 
wicked  and  pagan  Rome.  The  chalk  on  his  frock  shows 
that  he  is  under  evil  influences." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  evil  influences  in  such  a  holy  place 
as  this  abbey,"  said  Erasmus,  with  painful  irony. 

"Ah  !  "  replied  the  abbot,  "  I  am  beset  with  doubting 


^2  MO  NIC  AND  KNIGHT. 

monks  and  many  cares,  but  the  severest  of  all  is  my  care 
that  my  monks  shall  be  kept  from  sinful  familiarities  with 
what  is  called  '  the  new  learning.'  Vian  shall  be  shielded 
from  the  wickedness  of  unbelief." 

The  truth  is  that  Vian  had  already  copied,  with  an 
artistic  elegance  quite  marvellous  in  a  boy,  a  manu- 
script of  Lucian,  which  had  been  brought  secretly  from 
Italy  by  the  old  monk  Fra  (iiovanni,  whose  reading  of  the 
Scriptures  at  the  dinner  was  so  interrupted  by  asthma  and 
his  inclination  to  observe  the  guests.  One  of  the  monks, 
into  whose  care  Yian  had  been  committed  by  the  abbot, 
had  an  interest  in  this  author  of  which  the  abbot 
had  no  suspicion;  and  the  boy  had  been  allowed  to 
amuse  himself  and  obtain  favors  from  his  friend,  by  work- 
ing in  an  aimless  but  interested  way,  as  Abbot  Richard 
Beere  supposed,  but  really  in  a  way  most  perilous  to  the 
abbot's  plans,  at  pens,  knives,  parchment,  inks,  chalk, 
pumice-stone,  and,  most  significant  of  all,  this  manu- 
script of  Lucian's  "  Mycillus." 

"  He  has  copied  a  dialogue  from  Lucian,"  said  the 
abbot,  with  evident  displeasure. 

The  remark  struck  Erasmus  with  force,  as  he  saw  that 
the  abbot  knew  that  Erasmus  himself,  nearly  nine  years 
before,  had  translated  some  of  Lucian's  severest  stric- 
tures on  the  philosophers  of  his  day,  and  that  the  "  Praise 
of  Folly,"  which  certainly  the  abbot  had  not  seen,  and 
which  he  certainly  would  read  with  pain,  had  already  im- 
pressed his  friend  Thomas  More  as  a  satire  conceived 
against  the  monks,  and  owing  much  of  its  point  to  the 
author's  acquaintance  with  the  earlier  master  of  ridicule 
at  Samosota,  Lucian.  Erasmus  already  anticipated  the 
judgment  of  subsequent  literary  criticism ;  he  was  to  be 
called  the  Lucian  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

"  Why,  Lucian  ?  "  said  he  to  the  intent  abbot.  "  Lucian 
is  sure  to  sharpen  his  wits.  Your  Reverence  cannot  be 
uninterested  in  his  satire.  You  have  in  his  dialogue  a 


AT  AN  ENGLISH  ABBEY.  63 

cock  talking  with  a  cobbler,  his  master,  more  ludicrously 
than  any  professional  jester,  and  yet  more  wisely  than  the 
vulgar  herd  of  divines  and  philosophers  in  their  schools, 
who,  with  a  noble  disdain  of  more  important  matters, 
dispute  about  pompous  nothings." 

"  But  this  is  no  time  for  jests,  though  they  be  clever. 
The  habit  of  jesting  about  the  Holy  Church  will  grow 
out  of  Vian's  copying  Lucian's  dialogue.  He  is  fond  of 
translating.  He  really  enjoys  his  reading;  I  over- 
heard him  laugh  as  he  wrote.  He  was  copying  that 
passage  which  shows  the  panic  in  the  Pantheon,  when 
the  Olympian  deities  find  out  that  men  no  longer  have 
faith  in  them.  It  must  have  been  that  he  laughed  at 
what  he  had  just  read.  I  think  it  was  his  feeling  of  how 
ludicrously  they  behaved  when  they  thought  that,  as  gods, 
they  would  live  no  longer,  that  amused  him.  I  feel  that 
he  may  get  a  habit  of  amusing  himself  with  sacred  things. 
Some  wickedly  affect  to  believe  that  the  Holy  Church 
has  some  practices  and  certain  beliefs  which  are,  as  you 
say,  '  pompous  nothings.'  The  saints  preserve  Vian  from 
falling  into  the  habit  of  jesting  with  things  as  ancient 
and  holy  as  are  the  papacy,  the  confessional,  and  the 
priesthood  !  " 

Erasmus  detected  a  certain  pathos  in  this  position.  He 
knew  full  well  that  many  revered  institutions  could  not 
endure  jesting.  Even  the  attitude  of  Richard  Beere  had 
been  partially  transformed,  as  he  had  contemplated  the 
possibilities  in  the  immediate  future.  He  appreciated 
the  solemn  faithfulness  which  this  timid  conservative 
showed.  He  himself  had  begun  to  quail  a  little  at  the 
possible  results  of  ridiculing  the  clergy  and  their  igno- 
rant impiety.  But  the  "  Praise  of  Folly  "  was  written  ; 
and  such  mer  as  Abbot  Richard  must  now  hold  the  reins 
over  the  horses  which  the  noise  would  frighten.  Vian 
and  such  bright  boys  surely  would  get  hold  of  it  in  the 
abbeys ;  and  he  felt  concerned  a  little  oftentimes,  as  he 


64  MOM  AXD  KXIGIfT. 

thought  that  as  surely  as  this  boy  had  laughed  at  the 
old  philosophy  of  Rome  as  he  read  the  pages  of  Lucian, 
such  as  he  would  not  only  laugh,  but  grow  sceptical  about 
the  Romish  Church  as  they  read  the  '•  Praise  of  Folly." 
He  pitied  the  shy  and  painful  conservatism  of  this  abbot, 
anil  he  resolved  that  if  he  obtained  an  opportunity  — 
which,  by  the  way,  never  came —  he  would  caution  Yian 
against  supposing  that  anything  else  in  the  worl 
really  as  worthy  of  being  made  fun  of  as  was  the  old 
philosophy.  One  thing  he  would  be  careful  about,  —  he 
would  not  annoy  his  host  with  his  own  doubts  about  the 
Church,  his  own  knowledge  of  her  weakness  and  crimes, 
and  his  own  sure  hope  that  when  Abbot  Richard  had 
been  dead  a  long  while,  Yian  and  others  like  him  would 
be  led  in  the  triumph  of  "  the  new  learning." 

All  the  resolutions  of  Erasmus  had  those  alarming 
defects  which  come  from  a  weak  will  and  a  lively 
intelligence. 


CHAPTER   V. 

UNPLEASANT   VISITORS. 

No  man  e'er  felt  the  halter  draw 
With  good  opinion  of  the  law. 

TRUMBULL. 

MORE  came  into  the  vaulted  room  just  as  the 
abbot  and  Erasmus  had  partaken  of  the  excellent 
beer  which  was  brewed  by  the  monks  of  Glastonbury. 
After  sipping  a  little  more,  and  remarking  upon  its  good 
quality,  they  started,  with  the  proud  head  of  the  institu- 
tion, to  look  at  the  interesting  and  sacred  relics.  Old  Fra 
Giovanni,  breathing  whispers  to  Vian,  who  came  close  to 
Abbot  Richard,  came  and  went  with  surprising  freedom, 
as  they  proceeded  from  spot  to  spot.  This  beautiful 
youth  amidst  these  ancient  buildings,  this  fresh  boyhood 
in  this  atmosphere  of  antiquity,  —  the  contrasts  and  the 
suggestions  made  the  scholar  and  the  statesman  silent. 
Abbot  Richard,  however,  talked  incessantly. 

"  For  fifteen  centuries  and  more,  the  cross  has  stood 
on  this  spot ;  and  yet  some  fear  'that  base  men  will  some 
day  be  wicked  enough  to  raze  these  buildings  to  the 
earth.  The  saints  forefend  us  !  " 

He  listened  for  a  reply,  but  Erasmus  said  only  this : 
"There  will  be  no  change  but  for  the  better,  I  am 
sure." 

VOL.  i.  —  5 


66  JlfO.VA'  .l.YD   KNIGHT. 

•'  Ah,  if  I  could  be  sure  !  "  urged  the  abbot.  "  Here- 
tics are  everywhere,  and  kings  are  silent.  Would  that 
the  sword  were  drawn  but  once  !  they  would  disappear." 

"  Nay,"  said  More ;  "  ideas  alone  may  conquer 
ideas.  Saint  Peter  once  drew  his  sword ;  and  his  Mas- 
ter bade  him  sheath  it  again." 

"  Yes,  good  friend  !  "  added  Erasmus  ;  "  ideas  cannot 
be  swept  back  by  institutions,  —  for  institutions  are  only 
the  forms  of  old  ideas.'* 

He  was  just  going  to  say  that  new  ideas  often  sup- 
planted them  with  new  institutions,  when  the  abbot, 
somewhat  nettled,  said,  "And  what  if  these  old  ideas 
be  true  id 

ion,"   cautiously    replied    Erasmus,  —  "  then  they 
need  no  swords;  they  and  their  institutions  will  stand 

«  Ah  :  "  said  the  abbot,  "  the  Holy  Church  is  an  insti- 
tution  of   God,    not   the   embodiment    of    any   human 
s." 

Thomas    More    remembered   the    story  of  the  young 
Christ  as  the  "  Son  of  Man  "  standing  in  the  temple  and 
hile    Sabbath    and    temple    were    being    trans- 
formed, "  A  greater  than  the  temple  is  here." 

>mus  said  meditatively,  in  Vian's  hearing,  "  Even 
the  Sabbath  was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for  the 
Sabbath," — and  he  wanted  to  say  that  man  was  < 
child,  and  dearer  to  Him  than  all  else ;  but  they  were 
lastonbury  Thorn. 

The  abbot  was  eloquent ;  and  Vian  wondered  at  what 
was  sure  to  be  plain  to  him  at  a  later  day,  —  what  could 
Master  Erasmus  have  meant  by  that  quotation  about  the 
Sabbath  which  the  boy  had  already  seen  in  the  Vulgate? 

"  This  is  but  an  ordinary  bush  to  profane  eyes,"  said 
Abbot  Richard,  as  if  he  would  prevent  any  outburst  of 
rationalism  and  irreverence  on  the  part  of  Erasmus, 
whose  words,  especially  when  spoken  in  Vian's  presence, 


UNPLEASANT  VISITORS.  6? 

fie  dreaded ;  "  but  it  is  something  else  to  the  eye  of 
history  and  to  the  heart  of  faith." 

"  Sometimes,  your  Reverence,  the  over-zealous  heart 
of  faith  makes  the  eye  of  history  very  near-sighted," 
remarked  the  unimpressible  scholar. 

It  was  a  thrust  which  the  abbot  was  glad  Vian  did  not 
notice ;  but  it  nearly  staggered  the  credulous  and  loqua- 
cious Churchman. 

"  Have  I  invited  these  heretics  to  my  abbey,  that  this 
promising  child  may  be  ruined?"  thought  the  pious 
Abbot  Richard. 

Erasmus  was  sorry  he  had  said  so  much ;  but  his 
scholarly  spirit  was  full  of  rebukes  which  he  did  not 
utter  against  the  ignorance  intrenched  even  in  this 
abbey. 

He  had  been  annoyed  at  Giovanni's  reading  at  dinner, 
as  he  reiterated  some  of  the  most  palpable  errors  of  the 
Vulgate.  The  erudite  visitor  was  at  that  time  at  work  on 
the  critical  edition  of  the  Greek  Testament,  which  was 
to  appear  in  1516.  This  audacious  impiety  the  abbot 
had  already  set  down  against  Erasmus.  He  had  however 
failed  to  change  the  attitude  of  the  scholar  by  hospitality. 
Even  in  the  presence  of  Glastonbury  Thorn  he  replied  to 
the  hot  questions  of  the  abbot,  —  "  Would  you  presume  to 
correct  the  Holy  Ghost?  Are  you  the  enemy  of  the 
Church?" 

Erasmus  simply  said,  as  often  he  was  accustomed  to 
say :  "  Can  there  possibly  be  any  worse  enemies  of  the 
Church  than  the  godless  pontiffs  who  silently  suffer  Jesus 
Christ  to  be  rejected,  —  binding  him  by  their  mercenary 
adherents,  traducing  him  by  forced  interpretations,  and 
strangling  him  by  their  pestilent  morals." 

"  I,  in  spite  of  your  contumacious  words,  am  the  adhe- 
rent of  his  Holiness,"  spoke  the  abbot,  with  a  flashing 
eye. 

Vian  came  close  to  the  revered  head  of  Glastonbury, 


68  .VO.YA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

and  trembled.     The  boy  felt  that  something  which  his 
Reverence  prized  highly  was  endangered. 

nd  every  lover  of  truth,  my  gracious  host,  is  an 
adherent  of  Him  who  is  the  truth,"  trenchantly  added 
Erasmus. 

The  Abbot  Richard  was  silent  for  an  instant,  as  though 
puzzled  with  this  audacious  phenomenon,  —  a  man  of 
the  Renaissance  aglow  with  fire  for  a  reformation.  Then 
he  asked,  as  he  sent  Vian  away,  — 

"What  would  you  do  with  your  Greek  Testament?  " 

"  I  desire,"  gladly  answered  Erasmus,  —  "I  desire  to 
lead  back  to  its  first  teachings  the  cold  wordy  thing 
called  '  theology.'  Would  that  this  labor  might  bear  as 
much  fruit  for  Christianity  as  it  has  cost  in  effort  and 
application  !  " 

The  conservative  Churchman  shrugged  his  shoulders 
once  more,  and  began  again  to  talk  about  the  relics  of 
Glastonbury.  They  were  now  standing  near  the  thorn. 

••  I  )o  wirknl  men  doubt  the  miracles  of  the  Holy 
Church?  Here  is  a  living  miracle." 

"And  this,"  said  Kra>nms,  as  he  touched  its  green 
leaves,  — "  this  is  the  withered  staff  of  Saint  Joseph  of  Ari- 
mathea,  in  whose  grave  lay  the  dead  Christ  ?  Do  you  not 
think  that  the  devotions  paid  to  the  slips  from  this  tree, 
which  slips  I  have  seen  in  other  lands,  healing  the  sick 
and  filling  the  pockets  of  the  priests  with  coin,  do  en- 
tomb the  Lord  again,  so  that  the  Holy  Church  has  even 
now  a  Christ  in  the  sepulchre?  " 

Vian,  who  had  joined  them  again,  looked  up  with  the 
wondering  eyes  of  a  thoughtful  boy ;  and  Abbot  Richard, 
affecting  to  be  ignorant  that  the  scholar  had  asked  a 
pointed  question,  told  the  story,  presumably  for  the  in- 
struction of  the  boy. 

It  was  this.  Joseph  of  Arimathea  was  wealthy,  and  a 
member  of  the  Sanhedrim.  At  the  death  of  Jesus  his 
proffered  tomb  was  the  testimony  to  his  ardent  disciple- 


UNPLEASANT  VISITORS.  69 

ship.  Of  course  he  was  banished.  Adrift  for  long 
months  in  a  boat  without  sails  or  oar,  he  landed  at  last, 
with  Philip,  Lazarus,  Martha,  and  Mary,  at  Marseilles. 
Joseph  became  missionary  to  Britain ;  and,  tossed  shore- 
ward in  Bridgewater  Bay,  he  and  his  cause  became  pos- 
sessed of  twelve  hides  of  land,  by  the  tolerant  generosity 
of  King  Arviragus. 

"Up  this  very  hill,"  said  the  abbot,  "did  he  climb, 
from  the  morasses  and  fogs  below.  With  tired  feet,  on 
this  spot  he  ended  his  journey.  It  was  Christmas  Day. 
'We  are  weary  all,'  he  cried  out;  and  he  struck  his 
staff  into  the  earth,  and  fell  to  praying  and  thanking 
God." 

"So,"  said  More  ;  "it  is  called  '  Weary-all  Hill.'  " 

"And  so,"  said  the  abbot,  grateful  .that  More  was  at 
least  modest  in  his  scepticism,  —  "  and  so  the  wild  men 
who  crowded  about  the  saint  were  quite  powerless  to  do 
him  harm,  as  were  the  lions  over  Daniel.  From  that 
hour,  every  Christmas  Day,  this  staff  of  the  holy  Saint 
Joseph  has  given  forth  its  verdure  and  its  blossoms,  per- 
fuming the  airs  which  reach  the  abbey." 

"  Was  the  staff  of  Joseph  a  shoot  from  the  tree  out 
of  which  the  true  cross  was  made?"  asked  the  author 
of  the  "  Praise  of  Folly,"  with  an  irritating  innocence  of 
manner. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Abbot  Richard,  entirely  satisfied  with  the 
rising  faith  of  Erasmus ;  "  we  know  not.  The  walnut- 
tree  yonder  is  covered  with  leaves  on  each  Saint  Bar- 
nabas' Day." 

"  Both  of  these  trees  must  produce  a  fine  revenue  for 
Christ's  poor  priests ;  for  they  sell  the  slips  of  the  thorn 
at  wicked  prices  elsewhere.  And  I  am  told  by  our  good 
friend  here  that  crowds  come  to  create  a  carnival  when 
the  walnut-tree  puts  forth  its  leaves-." 

To  this  suggestion  of  the  money-making  tendencies 
of  the  monks,  the  abbot  made  no  reply.  He  couJd  not 


7O  MO.VA'  A.YD   K'XIGUT. 

enjoy  his  visitor ;  he  was  discouraged,  and  spoke  less  to 
the  scholar  and  more  to  his  friend  More.  Silently  they 
walked  back  to  the  chapel. 

The  twisted  withes,  of  which  John  of  Glastonbury  has 
spoken,  had  long  ago  given  place  to  something  more 
elegant  and  substantial ;  but  they  were  living  and  fra- 
grant in  the  conversation  of  the  abbot,  as  he  spoke  of 
the  chapel  and  the  arches. 

Never  quite  willing  to  confront  all  the  results  of  the 
influence  of  "  the  new  learning,"  More  was  interested  to 
hear  this  loyal  Churchman  and  Englishman,  as  he  antici- 
pated the  architectural  writers  of  later  periods,  insist- 
ing, as  he  did,  that  the  Gothic  order  of  architecture 
was  not  an  importation  from  France  or  Italy,  but 
that  it  owed  its  origin  in  Kngland  to  the  imitation 
of  the  wicker-work  of  which  the  Chapel  of  St.  Michael, 
connected  with  the  Glastonbury  Abbey  of  the  past,  was 
constructed. 

"  Interlacing  willows,  which  first  wound  around  the 
posts,  were  the  earliest  suggestions  of  the  intersecting 
lines  of  groined  roofs,"  said  his  Reverence. 

"  So  easily,"  said  Erasmus,  "  do  institutions  grow  with 

the  growing  life   of  mankind,  that  there   always   seems 

some  fact  handy  to  our  minds  over  which,  as  over  a 

bridge,  the  ambitious  thought  may  go  to  some  greater 

I  wonder  if  we  are  not  now,  in  Europe,  about  to 

for  a  while  the  making  of  chapels  and  cathedrals, 

for  the  founding  of  schools  like  Master  John  Colet's  in 

London?" 

The  very  name  of  John  Colet  of  St.  Paul's  roused  the 
already  excited  abbot  to  eloquent  ire.  He  had  known 
him  as  a  "  humanist ; "  and  much  as  at  times  he  had  sym- 
pathized with  learning,  to  be  a  devotee  of  his  peculiar 
ideas  was  worse  for  •Colet,  in  the  judgment  of  Richard 
.  than  if  he  had  been  a  scoundrel.  The  abbot 
<1  upon  John  Colet's  visit  to  Italy,  years  before, 


UNPLEASANT  VISITORS.  >]\ 

as  an  event  of  sad  import  to  the  orthodoxy  of  English 
Christendom. 

Certainly  the  great  Oxford  scholar  had  come  back 
with  a  love  for  the  Christian  element  in  Neo-Platonism 
which  made  him  very  tolerant  toward  Florentine  efforts 
at  philosophy,  and  with  a  holy  anger  against  ecclesiastical 
vice  which  made  him  intolerant  toward  much  that  was 
essential  in  the  mind  of  Richard  Beere.  Colet  had 
not  yet  founded  St.  Paul's  School;  but  Erasmus  knew 
that  the  abbot  understood  his  plans,  and  that  this 
school  was  the  most  hopeful  prophecy  in  the  brain  of 
an  Englishman. 

"  That  unhappy  day  when  John  Colet  brought  heresy 
into  England,  has  shadowed  the  Church  and  throne," 
said  the  abbot.  "  May  the  saints  save  such  as  these  "  — 
placing  his  hand  upon  the  head  of  Vian  — "  from  his 
baneful  influence  !  He  has  perverted  the  Scriptures  ;  he 
has  assailed  the  Church." 

"  If  the  Church  is  on  the  rock,  even  hell  may  not  shake 
her,"  said  More. 

"If  she  is  not. upon  the  rock,"  added  Erasmus,  "the 
truth  uttered  by  wise  and  brave  men  may  compel  her  to 
find  the  rock." 

It  was  two  against  one,  and  the  abbot  was  becoming 
furious.  "Come  with  me  !  Come  with  me  !  "  he  cried. 

In  his  haste  and  petulance,  he  had  forgotten  to  send 
Vian  upon  another  errand.  The  boy  clung  to  More,  half 
afraid  of  the  abbot. 

They  entered  the  Lord  Abbot  Richard's  dwelling. 
Erasmus  sat  behind  a  mullioned  window,  overhung  with 
fine  tracery  in  stone.  He  was  perfectly  serene.  The 
abbot  read  aloud  :  "  If  he  be  a  lawful  bishop,  he  of 
himself  does  nothing,  but  God  in  him.  But  if  he  do 
attempt  anything  of  himself,  he  is  then  a  breeder  of 
poison.  And  if  he  also  bring  this  to  birth,  and  carry 
into  execution  his  own  will,  he  is  wickedly  distilling 


poison  to  the  destruction  of  the  Church.  This  has  now, 
indeed,  been  done  for  many  years  past,  and  has  by  this 
time  so  increased  as  to  take  powerful  hold  on  all  mem- 
bers of  the  Church ;  so  that  unless  that  Mediator,  who 
alone  can  do  so,  who  created  and  founded  the  Church 
out  of  nothing  for  himself,  —  therefore  does  Saint  Paul 
often  call  it  a  *  creature,'  —  unless,  I  say,  the  Mediator 
Jesus  lay  to  his  hand  with  all  speed,  our  most  disordered 
Church  cannot  be  far  from  death.  .  .  .  Men  consult  not 
God  on  what  is  to  be  done  by  constant  prayer,  but  take 
counsel  with  men,  whereby  they  shake  and  overthrow 
everything.  AH  —  as  we  must  own  with  grief,  and  as  I 
write  with  both  grief  and  tears  —  seek  their  own,  not  the 
things  which  are  Jesus  Christ's ;  not  heavenly  things,  but 
earthly ;  what  will  bring  them  to  death,  not  what  will 
bring  them  to  life  eternal." 

"  Who  spoke  so  truly  and  so  well?"  inquired  the 
scholar,  who  was  certain  that  he  detected  in  those 
words  the  soul  and  manner  of  John  Colet. 

ie  wicked  heretic  whose  name  you  have  brought 
to  this  pla«  r,"  sharply  :  Abbot  Richard. 

n  my  soul,"  said  the  serene  More,  "you  would  love 
John  Colet,  did  you  but  know  him  as  I  do." 

"  I  cannot  love,  and  I  will  not  know>  the  enemies  of 
the  Church.  You  heard  the  words  which  I  read.  Such 
words  against  her  Supreme  Head  are  worthy  of  death. 
Oh,  these  are  days  of  peril  !  " 

In  vain  did  More  attempt  to  reconcile  the  troubled 
and  dogmatic  abbot  to  the  fine  and  noble  character 
of  a  man  whom  More  loved  so  well  and  honored  so 
thoroughly.  In  Colet  was  the  Renaissance  as  it  began 
to  blossom  into  the  Reformation ;  and  Abbot  Richard 
was  against  "the  new  learning"  the  moment  it  looked 
toward  disturbing  the  Church.  In  Colet  was  the  quiet 
of  the  Reformation,  which  was  sure  to  be  unquiet 
elsewhere  ;  and  the  head  of  Glastonbury  Abbey  would 


UNPLEASANT  VISITORS.  73 

meet  it  with  a  sword.  The  kings  who  courted  either 
"the  new  learning "  or  the  reform  were  untrustworthy; 
the  priests  who  recognized  either,  he  would  expel  from  the 
abbey  ! 

Yet  he  knew  that  this  latter  course  was  not  prudent, 
even  if  it  were  possible.  He  had  often  stood  in  solitude 
by  Glastonbury  Thorn,  and  wondered  what  to  do.  No 
poet  has  estimated  his  difficulties. 

"  The  miracle  we  now  behold, 

Fresh  from  our  Master's  hand, 
From  age  to  age  shall  long  be  told 

In  every  Christian  land, 
And  kings  and  nations  yet  unborn 
Shall  bless  the  Glastonbury  thorn." 

That  was  a  mere  statement  of  a  rhymester.  He  felt  the 
beauty  of  such  a  hope,  and  the  difficulty  of  its  realization, 
ages  before  the  poet's  birth. 

No  one  of  her  abbots  had  added  lands,  or  builded  so 
largely  upon  and  with  the  past,  as  had  he. 

"  Still  farm  to  farm,  and  park  to  park, 

They  added  year  by  year. 
From  hills  that  heard  the  soaring  lark, 

To  lowly  marsh  and  mere  ; 
But  still  they  cried,  '  The  space  is  small 

For  an  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  Hall.'  » 

He  felt  that  all  that  had  been  created  there  to  the 
honor  of  religion  was  permanent.  In  the  hour  when 
doubt  besieged  the  castle,  he  would  add  to  its  strength 
and  glory.  Here,  where  they  who  first  brought  the  gospel 
to  Britain  had  solemnly  woven  twigs  and  prayed  beneath 
a  thatched  roof,  Richard  Beere  saw  at  last  sixty  acres 
covered  with  noble  buildings.  As  often  as  he  felt  the 
breath  of  the  Renaissance  or  heard  the  thunder  of  the 
Reformation,  had  he  gone  to  Parliament  House  as 
the  proudest  of  spiritual  barons,  or  seated  himself  within 
his  elegant  court,  where  the  sons  of  royalty  and  nobility 


74  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

bowed  before  him  ;  or  perhaps  he  gathered  about  him  a 
hundred  men  of  noble  birth,  mounted  on  mettled  steeds 
and  clad  in  luxurious  garments,  making  up  his  retinue, 
as  he  set  out  for  a  synod ;  or  perhaps  he  then  conceived 
or  executed  a  plan  for  some  such  elaborate  addition  to 
the  buildings  as  should  demonstrate  the  unshaken  con- 
fidence which  her  most  conspicuous  English  abbot  pos- 
sessed in  the  character  of  the  present  ecclesiastical 
machinery.  He  knew  not  that  colossal  edifices,  dog- 
matic utterances,  and  persecuting  ardor  are  the  infal- 
lible signs  which  ideas  make  of  their  evanescence. 

He  was  proud  to  stand  with  the  builders  of  these 
solemn  arches  and  the  collectors  of  these  innumerable 
relics,  as  he  repeated  their  names  and  recounted  their 
achievements.  If  the  friends  of  Joseph  of  Arimathea 
had  built  the  little  wicker-work  church,  and  if  they  had, 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  angel  Gabriel,  as  he  believed, 
dedicated  it  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  buried  the  bones 
of  Joseph  there,  he  had  bound  the  destinies  of  Church 
and  State  together  by  erecting  the  King's  apartments. 
If,  nearly  fourteen  hundred  years  before,  the  ancient  and 
decayed  wattled  church  had  been  replaced  by  the  labor 
of  the  pious  hands  of  Saints  Phaganus  and  Duravanus, 
and,  as  the  result,  there  had  been  dedicated  another  to 
Saint  Michael  the  Archangel,  Abbot  Richard  had  erected 
that  lovely  shrine,  known  as  the  Chapel  of  Our  Lady  of 
Ix>retto.  Where  the  twelve  anchorets  which  Lucius  had 
placed  on  the  island,  to  live  for  the  most  part  on  bread 
and  water,  and  to  adorn  piety  with  the  painful  seclusions 
of  asceticism,  had  conquered  the  Druids,  there  the  trav- 
eller of  to-day  sees  the  small  almshouse  and  chapel  for 
women.  Abbot  Richard's  mitre  hangs  yet  over  a  full- 
blown rose,  both  mitre  and  rose  having  been  cut  in  stone 
making  an  armorial  supported  by  greyhounds  and  dated 

The  abbot  pointed  out  these  new  buildings  to  Krasmus 


UNPLEASANT  VISITORS.  75 

and  More,  unconsciously  suggesting  that  they  were  most 
excellent  testimonies  to  the  vitality  of  his  faith. 

"When  the  new  learning  is  dead,"  he  customarily 
had  said  to  Brother  Lysand,  who  always  agreed  with  his 
orthodoxy  of  belief,  and  drank  largely  of  his  most  de- 
lightful wines,  "  then  that  escutcheon  will  be  still  sur- 
mounting the  entrance." 

They  were  now  standing  at  the  entrance  of  St.  Bene- 
dict's Church,  near  the  vase  which  held  the  consecrated 
water;  the  abbot  had  pointed  to  the  initials  above, 
"  R.  B.,"  and  his  eye  was  still  fixed  upon  the  mitre  and 
garter  which  surmounted  the  escutcheon. 

"You  would  lessen  my  authority,"  said  the  abbot,  as 
he  saw  Erasmus  assume  the  attitude  of  a  man  simply 
tolerant  of  the  opinions  of  his  proud  host. 

"  No,"  answered  the  scholar.  "  I  beg  you  to  know 
that  the  authority  you  have  over  these  men  seems  to  be 
gracious  and  beneficent.  But  even  above  an  abbot  and 
numerous  ceremonies,  is  the  authority  of  Christ.  The 
escutcheon  will  fall,  if  the  foundation  of  St.  Benedict's 
Church  be  not  that  of  the  Holy  Apostles." 

"  I  would  not  have  the  boy  Vian  live  in  the  midst  of 
such  faithless  reasonings.  Scholar  that  you  are,  the  wis- 
dom of  this  world  has  misled  you." 

Erasmus  smiled.  His  friend  saw  a  sword  glitter  in 
that  smile. 

At  this  juncture  More  thought  he  saw  a  chance  to 
reconcile  two  men  whose  antagonism  of  thought  and 
conviction  had  made  courtesy  almost  impossible. 

"  The  boy  must  get  accustomed  to  the  daytime,"  re- 
plied he  to  his  own  questions.  And  then  he  said  to  the 
abbot :  "  The  new  learning  has  come.  I  believe  it  will 
remain.  But  Erasmus  and  I  do  not  agree  in  all  things. 
Master  Erasmus  and  I  had  a  controversy  this  day.  I 
fear  with  you,  Lord  Abbot,  that  some  of  the  foundations 
of  the  holy  faith  may  be  touched  profanely." 


76  MO\A'  AXD  KNIGHT. 

The  abbot  was  more  than  delighted.  His  loneliness 
was  gone.  Thomas  More  and  Erasmus  had  found  a 
difference  of  opinion  on  religious  matters  !  It  might 
lead  to  the  discrediting  of  the  influence  of  the  former  in 
England.  ifl  growing  more  powerful  every  day. 

Abbot  Richard  really  distrusted  and  certainly  feared  this 
wily  and.  scholarly  friend  of  More.  He  was  provoked 
that  in  Church  and  State  he  was  so  highly  honored. 
More's  politics  he  also  detested.  But  he  could  endure 
anything  from  his  faithlessness  as  to  the  king's  authority, 
if  only  he  found  him  a  substantial  and  loyal  Churchman 
in  this  crisis.  The  only  thing  against  More,  in  the  ab- 
bot's mind,  was  his  close  association  with  the  men  of 
the  new  learning.  He  was  rejoiced  that  he  and  Eras- 
mushad  found  themselves  in  controversy  at  (ilastonbury. 
The  solemn  grandeur  of  the  abbey  had  exercised  a 
beneficial  influence  on  the  young  politician.  Dare  the 
wily  foreigner  make  him  a  laughing-stock  in  his  writ- 
ings, if  Thomas  More  could  be  found  on  the  abbot's 
side  in  the  debate  ?  The  abbot  became  both  cheery  and 
dogmatic. 

"  Believe  that  you  eat  and  you  do  eat,"  said  More, 
who,  in  an  argument  on  the  real  presence  of  Christ  in  the 
consecrated  wafer,  had  been  worsted,  and  now  began 
again,  this  time  in  the  presence  of  the  abbot,  to  insist 
upon  the  power  of  faith. 

"  Yes ;  well  said  !  Truly  spoken  were  those  brave 
words,  Thomas  More  !  Be  not  fearful  in  the  presence 
of  a  great  scholar.  How  great  is  faith  !  how  great  is 
faith  !  " 

The  abbot  was  full  of  glee,  as  he  spoke ;  but  Thomas 
More,  who  knew  that  there  was  no  argument  in  the  digni- 
tary's hilarity  in  discovering  in  him  an  opponent  of  Eras- 
mus  on  the  doctrine  of  transtibstantiation,  who  also  felt 
that  perhaps  he  had  said  all  that  could  be  said  on  that 
side,  who  saw  clearly  that  Erasmus  was  as  calm  and  self- 


UNPLEASANT  VISITORS. 


77 


possessed  as  is  a  trained  army  in  the  field  against  a  single 
company  of  raw  recruits,  was  ominously  silent. 

The  abbot  spoke  again  :  "  The  whole  substance  of  the 
bread  and  wine  is  without  doubt  converted  into  the  Body 
and  Blood  of  Christ.  Let  him  who  doubts  it  know  that 
his  soul  has  forfeited  the  propitiation  of  Christ  himself." 

Erasmus  was  still  calm  and  silent.  Vian  brought  a 
flower  and  placed  it  in  the  thin  white  hand  of  the 
scholar. 

More  was  uneasy  lest  the  abbot  should  go  too  far.  He 
knew  how  undisturbed  was  the  mind  of  his  friend.  He 
could  not  bear,  however,  for  his  own  mental  comfort,  to 
see  him  practically  excommunicated  by  the  ardent  abbot. 

In  every  way  Erasmus  was  superior  to  Richard  Beere. 
He  could  not  endure  any  lordly  assumption  of  moral  or 
mental  governance  upon  the  part  of  the  abbot.  They 
were  his  guests ;  but  now  the  fire  of  theological  contro- 
versy threatened  to  destroy  all  friendly  relations.  More 
than  this,  was  Thomas  More  quite  aware  that  the  abbot 
had  made  astonishing  revelations  of  the  weakness  of  his 
positions.  He  knew  the  abbot  had  not  hitherto  thought 
well  of  him,  because  in  Parliament  he  had  defeated  the 
plans  of  his  royal  benefactor  Henry  VII.  It  was  amus- 
ing and  disgusting  to  him  that  all  his  own  political  faults 
had  been  instantly  pardoned,  so  soon  as  he  was  found  to 
be  in  some  way  antagonistic  to  the  dangerous  iconoclasm 
of  Erasmus  the  theologian.  He  also  remembered  that 
Erasmus  in  previous  conversations,  when  no  hospitable 
abbot  was  present  to  be  treated  with  courtesy,  had 
addressed  to  him  arguments  as  to  the  falsity  of  the 
church  idea  of  transubstantiation  which  he  had  been 
unable  to  answer.  He  now  discovered  that  the  learned 
abbot,  who  was  trained  in  theology,  was  no  better  pre- 
pared for  these  volleys  which  were  sure  to  come  than 
he  himself  had  been.  He  dreaded  to  have  Erasmus 
open  his  mouth  again.  Great  buildings  and  a  proud 


78  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

abbot  were  no  refuge  against  the  storm  which  this  man 
was  helping  to  bring  upon  the  corruption  and  dogmatism 
of  the  Church.  One  sentence  occupied  his  mind, — 
"  Believe  that  you  eat,  and  you  do  eat ;  "  and  it  seemed 
very  unsatisfactory  to  the  young  statesman. 

To  his  infinite  relief,  Erasmus  began  to  speak  of 
the  beauty  of  the  chapel,  which  stood  before  them  on 
Tor  Hill.  It  had  been  dedicated  to  Saint  Michael  the 
Archangel.  Even  yet  one  may  see  the  figure  of  the 
archangel  powerfully  sculptured  above  the  portal  of 
the  remaining  tower,  as  he  weighs  in  a  pair  of  balances 
the  Devil  against  the  Bible.  Erasmus  gazed  upon  the 
figures  for  a  moment,  and  discovering  an  attendant  imp 
trying  to  pull  down  the  scale  in  which  the  Devil  sits, 
dryly  said,  — 

u  My  Lord  Abbot,  is  the  name  of  that  imp,  Ignorantia, 
—  the  ignorance  of  the  priesthood?  I  see  he  is  making 
the  Bible  to  appear  very  light  in  the  scale." 

:  e  felt  that  a  newly  discovered  and  most  unpleasant 
quality  of  the  mind  of  Erasmus  had  disclosed  itself.  He 
was  surprised  and  annoyed  that  this  man  of  culture,  who 
often  desired  peace  at  any  price,  who  so  thoroughly  de- 
tested revolution,  should  prod  the  hospitable  abbot  with 
such  sharp  questions.  Erasmus,  on  the  contrary,  was  for 
once  consistent.  He  proposed  to  reform  the  opinions 
of  the  Church  from  within. 

The  abbot  was  silent,  save  to  mumble  words  of  grati- 
tude that  Vian  was  far  enough  away  to  miss  hearing  that 
question  ;  while  More  openly  but  affectionately  reproved 
Erasmus,  largely  for  the  reason  that  he  would  soothe  the 
wounded  soul  of  Richard  Beere. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Erasmus,  "  it  is  true  to  say,  '  Be- 
lieve I  am  honest  in  my  question,  and  I  am  honest,'  or 
'  Believe  that  that  little  stone  imp  up  there  is  the  igno- 
rance of  our  clergy,  and  it  is  the  ignorance  of  our  clergy ; ' 
but  I  have  better  reason  and  surer  faith  than  that  which 


UNPLEASANT  VISITORS.  fg 

kneels  before  a  consecrated  wafer  and  says,  '  Believe 
that  you  eat,  and  you  do  eat,'  when  I  say  that  no  other 
power  is  making  the  Bible  so  light  and  useless  as  the 
ignorance  of  the  priests  of  the  Holy  Church." 

Vian  had  now  come  close  to  the  trembling  and'  irri- 
tated abbot,  and  he  heard  the  deliberate  statement  of 
the  scholar. 

"  Even  if  you  believe  it,  it  is  perilous  wickedness  to 
proclaim  it,"  said  the  abbot,  with  petulance. 

"  I  proclaim  it  inside  the  heavy  and  strong  walls  of 
an  abbey,  and  to  the  Lord  Abbot  of  Glastonbury.  I 
have  written  of  the  sin  and  ignorance  of  the  monk.  He 
complains  that  his  authority  is  lessened  by  our  means, 
and  that  he  is  made  a  laughing-stock  in  my  writings. 
The  fact  is,  he  offers  himself  as  an  object  of  ridicule  to 
all  men  of  education  and  sense ;  and  this  without  end. 
I  repel  slander.  But  if  learned  and  good  men  think  ill 
of  a  man  who  directs  slander  at  one  who  has  not  de- 
served it,  which  is  it  fair  to  consider  the  accountable 
person,  —  he  who  rightly  repels  what  he  ought  not  to  ac- 
knowledge, or  he  who  injuriously  sets  it  afoot?  If  a  man 
were  to  be  laughed  at  for  saying  that  asses  in  Brabant 
have  wings,  would  he  not  himself  make  the  laughing 
matter?  However,  I  must  be  silent,  because  Thomas 
More  and  you  agree  on  one  philosophy :  '  Believe  that 
the  asses  of  Brabant  have  wings,  and  the  asses  of  Brabant 
have  wings.'  " 

Vian,  poor  child,  was  very  thirsty;  and  the  abbot 
gladly  led  the  way  to  the  spring  which,  ages  before,  had 
refreshed  the  thirsty  Saint  Dunstan. 

"  Foolish  journey  for  the  boy  !  "  said  Erasmus  to  More, 
quietly,  seemingly  careless  when  he  knew  the  youthful 
face  was  illumined  with  a  glowing  interest  in  what  he  then 
said  :  "  '  Believe  that  you  drink  and  you  do  drink.'  Oh, 
Thomas  More  !  I  have  not  sufficiently  praised  folly." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A    N  .VE. 

"  To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion, 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

ver  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  billows  crowned  with  summer  sea." 

No  wonder  your  school  raises  a  storm,  for  it  is  like  the  wooden  horse  in 
which  armed  Greeks  were  hidden  for  the  ruin  of  barbarous  Troy.  —  From 
Marts  LetUr  to  John  Coltt. 

ABBOT  RICHARD  was  called  to  attend  to  some  of 
the  duties  connected  with  his  high  position.  Fra 
Giovanni,  whose  reading  of  the  Vulgate  we  have  heard 
at  dinner,  and  whose  uniform  kindness  and  curious  tales 
had  already  bound  Vian  to  him  with  closest  affection, 
came  to  show  to  the  guests  other  interesting  relics  of 
the  abbey. 

Coughing  continually  and  smiling  at  all  times,  he 
trudged  along,  with  the  hand  of  Vian  in  his  own,  making 
himself  quite  agreeable,  and  rapidly  becoming  more  in- 
teresting to  Erasmus  than  were  even  the  shirt  of  Gildas 
and  the  coffins  of  Arthur  and  Guinevere. 

Giovanni  had  a  strange  history.  The  name  an- 
nounced not  only  his  Italian  extraction,  but  much  the 
same  uncertainty  of  family  connections  as  is  suggested 
by  the  commonest  of  names.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he 


A   NOVICE  AND  FUGITIVE.  8 1 

would  have  been  owned  by  any  family  of  Rome,  which 
city  had  been  his  birthplace,  or  whether  his  independent 
and  self-sufficient  soul  would  have  willingly  identified 
himself  with  even  the  proudest  family  whose  name  was 
known  by  the  Caesars.  He  was  of  fine  ancestry,  so  far 
as  the  aristocracy  of  brains  and  culture  might  go.  He 
knew  himself  to  be  the  unacknowledged  son  of  a  cer- 
tain Italian  cardinal,  whose  features  were  most  marvel- 
lously reproduced  in  his  own  face,  and  whose  passionate 
love  for  the  classic  arts  and  classic  letters  was  an  enthu- 
siasm, if  not  a  worship,  in  the  soul  of  his  child. 

All  this  Erasmus  also  knew,  from  a  clerical  friend  in 
Venice,  who  had  known  Fra  Giovanni  at  the  papal  court. 
The  scholar  had  also  been  informed  that  the  Italian  had, 
in  1508,  been  persuaded  by  the  Pope  himself  to  go  to 
England  for  a  consideration  in  the  shape  of  certain  man- 
uscripts and  books  of  almost  priceless  value,  which  he 
was  allowed  to  take  with  him.  And  further,  Erasmus 
knew  that  Abbot  Richard  Beere  had,  for  a  consideration 
also,  agreed  to  make  him  at  home  at  Glastonbury. 

The  real  reason  of  the  Pope's  desire  that  Fra  Giovanni 
should  be  out  of  Italy  lay  in  this,  —  that,  unluckily  for  his 
Holiness  Julius  II.,  the  eye  of  this  active  monk  had  be- 
held certain  letters  which  had  passed  between  a  certain 
enemy  of  Maximilian  and  the  Pope,  —  letters  of  which 
no  one  had  previously  had  knowledge,  save  the  Pope, 
death  having  partially  hid  the  secret  in  the  grave  of  the 
correspondent,  —  letters,  it  must  be  added,  whose  char- 
acter and  witness  were  so  against  his  Holiness  as  to  de- 
mand the  death  or  banishment  of  any  beside  the  Pope 
who  might  have  read  them.  With  the  art  of  a  trained 
politician,  the  Pope  had  also  accomplished  the  purpose 
of  having,  as  he  supposed,  close  to  the  ear  and  lips  of  the 
most  powerful  abbot  in  England,  a  trusty  and  yet  not 
too  pious  servant.  Richard  Beere  was  compensated,  al- 
though this  same  Fra  Giovanni  would  often  annoy  him, 
VOL.  i.  —  6 


JAAVA'  .LY/>   h'NIGHT. 

as  the  Pope  knew.  Italy,  at  least,  would  be  free  from  a 
curious  monk,  whose  secret  would  not  be  told ;  and  per- 
haps the  same  prying  curiosity  which  had  made  such 
discoveries  in  the  house  of  the  Pope  might  be  able  to 
obtain  secrets  equally  valuable  to  the  papal  chair,  from 
an  abbot  whose  place  in  Parliament  and  at  the  court  of 
Henry  VII.  was  powerful. 

The  truth  was  that  1  ;nni  had  not  been  in 

Glastonbury  a  month,  before  he  was  the  abbot's  master. 
>ility  to  discover  a  skeleton  in  some  closet,  and  to 
stand  near  unto  it,  pointing  out  to  the  guilty  and  know- 
ing ones  how  easily  he  could  create  a  perfect  bedlam  in 
the  room  of  existent  serenity  and  happiness,  was  never  so 
self-conscious  nor  so  autocratic  as  now. 

Scandalous  stories  had  been  in  circulation  concerning 
two  of  the  priors  to  whom  Abbot  Richard  had  been 
under  long  and  painful  obligations.  Fra  Giovanni  found 
out  every  detail  of  the  affair,  and  gave  the  frightened 
priors  sufficient  information  to  make  them  miserable  and 
obedient.  A  wretched  series  of  circumstances  connect- 
ing the  abbot  himself  with  a  foul  transaction  had  been 
cd  and  resurveyed,  measured  and  accurately  de- 
scribed, so  that  Giovanni,  in  a  low  but  terrible  voice,  one 
day  displayed  to  the  abbot  so  much  of  that  body  of 
facts  which  he  possessed,  that  though  he  himself  avowed 
his  faith  in  the  abbot's  innocence,  this  ecclesiastical  dig- 
nitary quivered  before  Giovanni's  whisper,  and  begged 
like  a  slave  for  his  gracious  protection.  With  a  sceptre 
of  scandal,  this  solitary  priest  dominated,  so  far  as  he  de- 
sired, the  entire  abbey.  He  was  above  all  rules,  superior 
to  all  traditions,  the  master  of  all  customs,  —  his  own 
law  and  guide. 

He  had  the  most  sad  and  broken  of  asthmatic  voices, 
and  was  the  picture  of  quiescent  truthfulness ;  yet  when 
he  desired  any  position  in  the  abbey,  another  was  dis- 
placed. At  meals  he  read  the  passage  of  Scripture.  He 


A   NOVICE  AND  FUGITIVE.  83 

chose  this  place,  because  while  he  read  he  could  with  a 
piercing  glance  look  over  upon  Richard  Beere,  Lord 
Abbot  of  Glastonbury,  as  he  was  ordering  monks  about 
like  so  many  slaves  or  making  a  visiting  duke  his 
puppet,  and  he  could  inform  his  lordship  in  absolute 
silence  that  he  also  had  a  master  whom  he  must  not 
offend. 

Another  throne  of  power  belonged  to  Giovanni.  He 
himself  was  chief,  and  indeed  for  a  time  sole  flagellant 
for  the  abbey.  Abbot  Richard  might  go  to  Parliament 
with  a  gorgeous  retinue,  but  he  never  knew  when  Fra 
Giovanni  might  demand  the  privilege  of  flogging  him. 
Giovanni  chuckled  when  he  thought  of  how  tenderly  he 
would  administer  the  long  birchen  rods  to  the  back  of 
this  spiritual  lord.  With  no  faith  whatever  in  the  men, 
the  motives,  or  the  hopes  of  the  Holy  Church,  he  was 
a  happy  fixture  at  Glastonbury  Abbey. 

Erasmus  tried  to  get  the  scholarly  Giovanni  to  talk 
books,  manuscripts,  and  Greek  art.  Everybody  who 
could,  or  dared,  was  affecting  interest  in  the  Renaissance ; 
but  Fra  Giovanni,  who  knew  far  more  than  did  Erasmus 
of  the  delectable  gossip  attending  the  revival  of  learning 
in  Italy,  refused  sullenly  to  speak  except  with  irony. 

"  This  is  holy  ground,"  said  he.  "  The  profane  Greeks 
must  not  snuff  this  air.  Nostrils  like  mine,  so  used  to 
this  sacred  atmosphere,  must  not  be  polluted  by  odors 
from  the  ^Egean.  Weary-all  Hill  is  higher  than  the 
Acropolis ;  and  the  Lord  Abbot's  kitchen  is  more  to  be 
desired  than  the  Erectheon." 

"Especially  at  meal-time,"  said  Erasmus,  who  per- 
ceiv'ld  the  excellent  raillery. 

"  Here,"  said  Giovanni,  as  he  affected  not  to  notice 
the  words  of  his  interlocutor,  —  "  here  is  this  boy,  whose 
pious  mother  has  sent  him  here  to  be  kept  from  the 
posthumous  influence  of  a  man  named  John  Wycliffe,  a 
reforming  clerk  of  Lutterworth,  who  translated  the  Bible  ; 


84  .J/O.VA-  A.VJ) 

and,  the  saints  will  witness!  my  Lord  Abbot  has  been 
allowing  him  to  be  with  one  who  laughs  at  the  pi 
tion  on  which  stands  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiation, 
'  Believe  you  eat,  and  you  do  eat.' " 

'•  Mid  Vian  tell  you  of  our  unhappy  controversy?" 
asked  More. 

••Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Giovanni,  with  a  smile; 
"and  I  doubt  not  his  \Vycliffite  blood  is  tingling  yet  with 
his  inborn  opposition  to  the  blessed  doctrine  of  transub- 
stantiation. He  is  a  bright  boy,  —  bright  enough. 

onai  More,  to  be  the  pride  of  all  of  this  abbey  and 
the  hope  of  all  of  us  who  believe  in  '  the  new  learning.' 
The  abbot  will  bless  him,  and  we  will  educate  him. 
But  I  must  return  to  holier  things  than  the  education 
of  a  youth  in  profane  learning.  The  saints  forgive  me  !  " 

n  More  perceived  the  point  of  his  satire.  The 
monk  was  very  happy  and  gracious.  They  were  now 
standing  in  front  of  this  inscription  :  — 

M  Hie  JACET  ARTURUS,  FLOS  REGUM,  GLORIA  REGXI, 

M    MORES   PROBITAS   COMMENDAXT   LAUDE   PERENNI, 

VERSUS  HENRICI  SWANMCV  AHBATIS  GLASTON. 
ARTURI  JACET  me  COMIX  TIMILTA  SECUNDA 

QtLC   MERUIT   CCLOS   VIRTUTEM   PROIE   SECUNDA." 

Fra  Giovanni  advanced  solemnly  to  the  black  mauso- 
leum which  he  averred  contained  the  bones. 

"  Bones  are  more  sacred  than  brains,"  he  remarked. 

"  These  are  bones  of  King  Arthur  of  the  Round  Table," 
said  More. 

••  \Vell,"  remarked  his  friend,  "  the  king's  bones  were 
the  bones  of  a  more  honorable  man  than  are  those  I  am 
accustomed  to  have  to  kneel  before.  For  my  part,  I  am 
worn  out  at  the  knees  with  crawling  before  the  bones  of 
saints  who  were  not  saintly." 

Vian  was  amazed,  and  then  he  smiled  at  the  idea.     It 


A   NOVICE  AND  FUGITIVE.  85 

reminded  him  of  what  the  heretics  of  Lutterworth  used 
to  say  about  saints'  bones. 

"  They  tell  us  that  Guinevere's  yellow  hair  was  found 
nicely  braided  when  the  coffin  of  hollowed  oak  was 
opened,"  said  Giovanni. 

"  The  braiding  of  her  locks  was  probably  the  last  touch 
of  the  affectionate  hands  of  Sir  Lancelot,"  added  More, 
with  a  smile. 

"Have  you  no  more  disgusting  relics  than  these?" 
asked  the  scholar.  "  I  have  been  so  accustomed  to  those 
that  empty  me  of  my  dinner  that  I  do  not  feel  sufficiently 
impressed  by  these." 

Even  Giovanni  smiled ;  and  then  he  proceeded  to 
lead  the  way  through  the  long  cloisters,  beneath  many  of 
the  arches  which  lie  upon  the  ground  to-day.  At  length 
they  stood  before  the  hair  shirt  of  Gildas.  More  placed 
his  hand  upon  it ;  and  Erasmus  said,  — 

"  Is  this  the  shirt  which  he  never  exchanged  for  a 
cleaner  garment?" 

"  The  same,"  said  Giovanni.     "  It  is  very  sacred." 

"I  notice  it  has  the  odor  of  sanctity.  I  believe  now 
that  this  holy  man  never  washed  himself,  and  was  unclean 
enough  to  be  canonized.  Is  it  not  true?  " 

"Quite  true,"  replied  the  monk.  "Time  is  a  base 
heretic,  for  this  shirt  does  not  smell  so  badly  as  it  did 
once." 

At  that  moment  the  abbot  appeared.  He  noticed 
that  Vian  avoided  him,  and  he  interpreted  it  as  follows : 
The  boy  had  been  caught  again  in  the  apartment  of  a 
certain  young  monk  who  had  read  to  him  the  odes  of 
Horace  and  many  of  the  pages  of  Lucian.  That  young 
monk  was  now  to  be  severely  flogged  by  Giovanni ;  and 
Vian  had  found  it  out,  and  loving  him  whom  he  thought 
of  as  his  literary  benefactor,  he  had  conceived  a  fear  of 
the  abbot. 

The  truth  was,  the  boy  knew  nothing  of  the  proposed 


86  '    MO\K  A.\'/>   KXIGHT. 

flogging ;  but  he  did  feel  within  his  heart  a  strange 
homesickness  for  Lutterworth,  and  a  longing  desire  to 
accompany  More  and  Erasmus,  when  they  should  bid 
farewell  to  the  abbot  and  the  hospitalities  of  Glaston- 
bury  Abbey.  It  was  well  that  he  did  not  dare  to  mention 
this,  save  to  Fra  Giovanni. 

The  next  d.iy  Abbot  Richard  was  busy  with  the  Arch- 
bishop of  York.  While  Giovanni  was  laughing  with  the 
monk  whom  he  had  been  sent  to  flog,  the  illustrious  trav- 
ellers were  slowly  making  their  way  out  of  the  abbey, 
repeating  the  controversies  of  the  past  few  days. 

Vian  — boy  that  he  w  broken-hearted  at  part 

ing  with  two  men  so  unlike  monks  in  the  freedom  of 
their  spirits,  so  manly  in  their  thought.  ni  had  al- 

lowed him  to  follow  him  about  from  one  place  to  another, 
until  his  tear-filled  eyes  were  actually  beholding  the 
simulation  of  a  flogging.  Administered  to  whom?  To 
the  radiant- faced  young  monk  who  had  read  Horace  to 
Vi.m.  For  what?  For  the  sin  of  instructing  Vian's 
ignorance,  and  acquainting  his  mind  with  one  of  the 
<s  of  Roman  genius. 

As  soon  as  the  eyes  of  the  youth  saw  the  bare  back  of 
this  friend  of  his  soul,  the  birchen  rods,  and  the  pitiless 
gesticulations  of  Giovanni,  they  streamed  with  hot  tears. 
He  cried  out  in  a  manly  voice  :  "  I  hate  Lord  Abbot 
Richard  Beere  !  I  hate  you  too,  Fra  Giovanni  !  I  hate 
even-thing  in  this  abbey." 

Pretending  anger,  the  monk  excluded  him  at  once, 
with  words  of  censure  and  contempt.  Vian  was  aflame 
with  hate,  indignation,  and  hope.  Never  did  a  boy's  feet 
carry  him  with  more  speed  than  did  his.  Without  a 
question  from  any  who  saw  him  running,  he  made  his 
way  to  the  great  wall.  Unconquered  by  a  dozen  failures 
mount  it,  his  despair  invented  a  ladder.  At  last  he 
scaled  it.  While  Giovanni,  the  mimic  flagellant,  was  still 
laughing,  as  he  and  the  younger  and  unflogged  monk  read 


A   NOVICE  AND  FUGITIVE.  8/ 

a  play  of  Terence  in  that  quiet  cell  which  was  supposed 
to  be  a  place  of  private  punishment ;  while  also  Abbot 
Richard  was  solemnly  bewailing  to  the  Archbishop  the 
state  of  the  Church,  the  spread  of  Greek  thought,  and 
especially  the  influence  of  Erasmus  upon  the  clergy  and 
laity,  —  this  eager  son  of  a  Lollard  was  running  unwea- 
riedly,  through  heat  and  dust,  in  pursuit  of  the  two 
travellers,  who  had  been  detained  at  the  gate,  and  had 
just  now  gone  out  of  his  sight. 


CHA1TKK   VII. 

A    1  HATEAU. 

!>egan  to  hunt  more  after  words  than  matter,  and  more  after  the 
choiceness  of  the  phrase,  and  the  round  and  clean  composition  of  the  sen- 
tence, and  the  sweet  falling  of  the  clauses,  and  the  varying  and  illustration 
of  their  works  with  tropes  and  figures,  than  after  the  weight  of  matter, 
worth  of  subject,  soundness  of  argument,  life  of  invention,  or  depth  of 
judgment  Then  grew  the  flowing  and  watery  vein  of  Osorius,  the  Por- 
tugal Bishop,  to  be  in  price ;  then  did  Sturmius  spend*  such  infinite  and 
curious  pains  upon  Cicero  the  orator  and  Hermogenes  the  rhetorician,  be- 
sides his  own  books  of  periods  and  imitation,  and  the  like.  Then  did  Car 
of  Cambridge,  and  Ascham,  with  their  lectures  and  writings  almost  deify 
Cicero  and  Demosthenes,  and  allure  all  young  men  that  were  studious  into 
that  delicate  and  polished  kind  of  learning.  Then  did  Erasmus  take  oc- 
casion to  make  the  scoffing  echo,  Decent  annos  consumfsi  in  legendo 
Cicerone;  and  the  echo  answered  in  Greek:  flNE,  Asine.  —  LORD 
BACON. 

WHILE,  next  day,  over  that  English  roadway  Vian 
was  making  his  way  back  to  Glastonbury  Abbey, 
under  the  care  of  a  friendly  sub-prior  who  had  been 
nearly  a  day  in  overtaking  him,  the  following  conversation 
was  occurring  in  one  of  the  most  lovely  of  the  castles  of 
France : — 

"  Make  him  a  knight  and  a  scholar." 

"  That  can  easily  be  accomplished.  He  has  the  figure 
and  spirit  of  Bayard  himself,  and  he  knows  manuscripts 
now  as  no  scholar  of  the  Sorbonne  ever  knew  them  at 
such  an  age." 

These  remarks  were  made  by  two  men,  —  rather,  let 


A   FRENCH  CHATEAU.  89 

us  acknowledge,  by  a  youth,  and  a  man  past  middle 
age,  both  of  whom  stood  within  the  walls  of  the  chateau 
of  Amboise.  This  chateau  in  the  early  part  of  the  six- 
teenth century  crowned  the  summit  of  a  huge  rock  over- 
looking the  Loire,  as  it  wound  by  the  town  of  Tours, 
through  the  shady  gardens  and  below  the  purple  vine- 
yards which  constituted  what  was  called  "  the  Orchard 
of  France." 

These  men  had  just  come  from  Loches.  Quietly  and 
unobserved,  they  had  made  certain  plans  in  that  unfre- 
quented spot,  which  was  associated  with  the  remorse  of 
a  queen;  the  splendid  oratory  which  still  stands  as  a 
memorial  of  the  repentance  which  was  never  absent 
from  the  mind  of  Anne  of  Brittany,  so  long  as  she  re- 
membered the  broken-hearted  daughter  of  Louis  XL,  — 
Jeane  of  France,  —  from  whom  she  had  stolen  a  husband, 
Louis  XII.  The  delay  was  over ;  a  week  of  labor  at  pay- 
ing special  attention  to  Louis  XII.  had  been  endured ; 
and  they  were  glad  to  be  back  again  at  the  residence  of 
Louise  of  Savoy,  where  these  plans  could  be  carried  out. 

The  first  speaker  was  a  youth  of  magnificent  presence 
and  lofty  bearing;  the  second  was  a  somewhat  aged 
knight  who  had  been  wounded  in  battle.  The  latter  was 
scarred,  but  impressive  in  his  appearance,  prematurely 
white-haired,  limping  as  he  walked,  eloquent  and  learned 
in  his  every  utterance,  and  evidently  obedient  in  every 
courtesy  toward  the  tall  and  stately  youth  who  stood 
before  him.  The  old  man  was  known  to  the  King  Louis 
XII.  and  his  court  as  Nouvisset.  The  younger  was 
called  Francois,  Due  d'Angouleme,  who  was  soon  to  be 
known  to  the  world  as  Francis  L,  King  of  France. 

Together  they  walked  to  the  spot  on  which  Caesar  is  said 
to  have  stood  when  he  was  so  struck  with  the  unique 
value  of  the  position  in  war  that  he  ordered  a  tower 
crowned  with  a  statue  of  Mars  to  be  built  thereon.  They 
looked  forth  upon  the  Arcadian  landscape.  Neither, 


90  J/O.VA-  AND   K\\-IGHT. 

however.  \\\:s  observant  of  its  genial  beauty.  The  young 
duke  had  his  eye  upon  the  figure  of  another  youth,  who 
was  standing  alone  on  the  gentle  slope,  quite  carelessly 
g  upon  the  winding  river.  As  the  boy  turned  and 
walked  briskly  toward  the  gallery  which  overlooked  the 
flowing  stream,  his  face  came  in  full  view. 

As  he  came  nearer,  his  whole  personality  became  more 
interesting.  The  unique  qualities  which  uttered  their 
silent  history  in  his  gait,  his  attitude,  his  fine  nostril, 
and  full  forehead,  commanded  attention.  He  was  but 
a  boy,  yet  ages  of  human  experience  with  various  forces 
and  of  deepest  significance  burned  in  that  glance.  His 
clear  eye  was  neither  sharp  nor  stern,  but  its  light 
was  wonderfully  penetrating,  —  after  the  manner  of  a 
voice  which  carries  well  because  it  is  musical.  Medita- 
tion upon  some  fancied  wrong  might  have  opened  those 
solemn  deeps  which  lay  all  discovered  to  one  who 
would  peer  into  its  liquid  infinities.  It  was  not  at  all 
sentimental  in  its  open  hospitality  ;  it  was  simply  frank 
and  full  in  the  revelation  which  it  made  that  the  soul 
behind  it  felt  the  infinite  significance  of  life,  and  knew 
not  enough  of  the  narrow  policies  of  men,  in  the  midst  of 
>blems,  even  to  hide  his  awful  sense  of  life's  mys- 
tery. His  face  had  the  free  flowing  lines  which  are 
found  in  the  pictures  of  Raphael,  but  it  was  not  wholly 
Italian.  His  careless  yet  noble  attitude  often  reminded 
one,  who  had  lived  with  portraits,  of  the  earlier  knights  of 
France ;  yet  more  than  France  stood  in  the  determined 
and  graceful  youth.  Oftentimes  his  compressed  lips 
would  quiver ;  then  the  eyes  would  swim  in  what  seemed 
tears;  and  then  a  single  step  would  reveal  a  youth 
unconsciously  jealous  of  his  own  prerogatives,  perhaps 
impatient  with  himself  that  he  ever  felt  an  uncontrollable 
emotion  within  his  bre 

"  A  knight  and  a  scholar  he  shall  be,"  said  Nouvisset 
to  the  young  Francis.  "When  do  we  leave  your  side?' 


A    FRENCH  CHATEAU.  gi 

"  Do  not  be  greatly  in  haste,"  answered  the  duke,  as 
ne  surveyed  the  youth  with  eyes  of  affection.  "  Nouvisset, 
behold  my  beloved,  as  he  comes  near  to  us  !  My  heart 
breaks  that  we  are  to  part,  even  for  a  little  time.  Where 
is  my  sister  Marguerite?  She  has  loved  to  hear  his 
stories  of  Piedmont.  I  want  him  to  feel  sure  of  our 
affection.  Do  you  think  he  sickens  for  his  mountains  ?  " 

"  No,  my  liege  !  "  answered  the  lame  knight.  "  He  is 
to  know  surely  that  his  whole  family  and  kin  were  slaugh- 
tered. It  must  all  be  so  melancholy  that  he  shall  never 
wish  to  return,  or  ask  questions  about  it.  Every  resource 
of  love  and  every  power  of  the  court,  when  you  are  our 
king,  Sire  !  must  be  used  to  attach  him  to  the  France  of 
the  Church  and  the  king.  He  loves  you  with  a  devotion 
pathetic  and  true.  The  Holy  Church,  if  you  will  it,  must 
surround  him  with  all  that  may  charm  and  fasten  his 
affections  to  her.  He  loves  knighthood  with  every  drop 
of  his  blood.  Mark  you  !  there  is  Italian  blood  in  your 
friend.  Well,  the  charms  of  knighthood,  its  nobility  and 
passion,  must  be  brought  to  him.  He  will  be  your 
Bayard,  mark  me  !  Does  not  Madame  d'Angouleme 
say  he  is  made  for  a  knight?  By  the  soul  of  Gaston 
de  Foix,  as  I  die,  I  shall  live  again  in  that  boy." 

"  And  you  believe  that  he  is  a  scholar  by  nature, 
also?"  asked  the  duke. 

"  By  Saint  Ives,  I  am  sure  he  knows  of  books  which  I 
have  not  heard  of.  An  astonishing  household  it  must 
have  been  in  which  that  child  was  cradled.  Did  he  not 
even  yesterday  pick  up  my  Demosthenes,  fresh  from 
Aldus  himself,  and  printed  in  1504,  and  tell  me  that  one 
lay  on  the  window-sill  in  his  father's  cottage  ?  He  knows 
by  heart  all  the  verses  of  Dante  which  condemn  the 
Guelph  and  annoy  the  Pope.  He  already  has  heard 
somewhere  so  much  of  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio,  that  he 
smiled  at  what  Madame  d'Angouleme  would  think  very 
sacred.  A  scholar?  For  your  purposes,  my  beloved 


g2  MONK  AND   KXlCIIf. 

Sire,  as  king  of  France  by  and  by,  you  need  a  trusty 
knight,  a  learned  friend,  a  skilful  Churchman.  Would  to 
the  saints  that  this  stalwart  child  of  the  mountains  were 
as  sure  to  be  a  saint  after  the  required  pattern,  as  he 
is  to  be  a  heroic  knight  and  the  first  bibliopole  in 
Europe  !  You  can  keep  your  genius  for  war  and  the 
court,  if  your  gentle  and  studious  friend  is  put  in  charge 
of  all  affairs  of  learning." 

By  this  time  the  mere  boy  concerning  whom  they  had 
been  conversing  was  out  of  sight.  He  was  wandering 
about  in  a  most  playful  mood  with  the  tutor  of  the  son 
of  Madame  <!'. \ngotileme,  which  important  lady  we  shall 
know  as  Louise  of  Savoy.  Her  daughter,  whom  French 
history  knows  first  as  Marguerite,  then  as  Duchesse 
<1  Alencon,  and  then  as  Queen  of  Navarre,  was  .vith 
them. 

I'u-rre  de  Rohan,  the  instructor,  had  been  asked  by 
the  anxious  Louise  to  estimate  this  youth,  with  whom  her 
son  Francis,  whom  she  already  looked  upon  as  sovereign 
of  France  by  her  lively  governance,  had  fallen  so  deeply 
in  love.  She  had  heard  the  young  Francis  talk  in  the 
most  surpr  \  about  revivals  of  learning,  scholars, 

poets,  printers,  and  lectures  on  law  and  theology ;  and 
quite  unable  as  was  Louise  of  Savoy  to  appreciate  the 
gigantic  forces  of  the  fading  Renaissance  and  those  of 
the  dawning  Reformation,  with  which  any  successor  of 
Louis  XII.  would  have  to  deal,  she  had  perfect  confi- 
dence in  the  good  judgment  of  the  famous  tutor  Pierre 
de  Rohan,  and  in  the  sagacity  and  truthfulness  of  what 
isset  had  said,  — 

-aciously  permit  me  to  say  to  you,  as  the  widow  of 
Charles  d'Angouleme,  cousin  to  the  King  Louis  XII., 
that  your  husband  knew  that  the  successor  of  Louis  must 
have  a  great  and  wise  scholar  at  his  court.  Knighthood 
will  ever  after  this  have  to  do  with  ideas.  The  man  of 
^earning  is  now  the  true  knight." 


A   FRENCH  CHATEAU. 


93 


Louise  of  Savoy  was  sometimes  a  superb  politician. 
This  mother  was,  for  the  nonce,  glad  to  hear  her  son 
talking  with  this  remarkably  strong  and  independent 
boy  about  things  which  kings  and  dukes  had  not  cared 
for. 

It  was,  however,  laborious  waiting  for  a  king's  death. 
Even  the  strange  youth  felt  that  the  atmosphere  about 
Amboise  was  very  melancholy.  The  impatient  Madame 
d'Angouleme,  Louise  of  Savoy,  was  only  a  year  older 
than  Anne  of  Brittany,  Queen  of  Louis  XII. ;  but  Anne 
had  rapidly  aged,  as  her  sons  by  Charles  VIII.  or  Louis 
XII.  had  died,  one  after  the  other ;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  Louise  of  Savoy  had  grown  young,  apparently,  with 
rejoicing,  and  in  contemplating  with  infinite  craft  and 
pleasure  the  future  of  her  handsome,  strong,  and  ambi- 
tious son.  Over  against  the  piety  and  continuous  repent- 
ance of  Anne  were  the  dissolute  gayety  and  avaricious 
ambition  of  Louise.  While,  in  tears,  Queen  Anne  repre- 
sented to  her  husband,  Louis  XII.,  the  immoral  conduct 
of  the  mother  of  Duke  Francis,  she  knew  also  that 
Louise  was  anxiously  hoping  for  the  death  of  the  king. 
He  also  remembered  that  in  1504,  when  all  supposed 
him  to  be  dying  or  dead,  Anne's  valuables  which  she  had 
prematurely  shipped  for  Brittany,  were  seized,  and  that 
afterward  the  audacious  Louise  found  out  that  she  was 
not  yet  Queen  Regent  of  France.  At  first,  when  the 
king  had  been  willing  to  give  the  Princess  Claude  to 
Duke  Francis,  her  mother,  Anne,  had  prevented  her 
attachment  to  the  son  of  the  hated  Louise. 

Marriage  had  come,  however ;  and  death  also  had  at 
last  come,  —  but  the  latter  had  come  only  to  Anne. 
Every  one  at  Amboise  wondered  why  the  king  did  not 
die.  Even  the  young  stranger  told  Nouvisset,  as  the 
latter  opened  up  before  him  the  prospect  of  study 
at  Chilly,  that  he  would  not  care  if  Louis  XII.  should 
die. 


•  You  are  not  ready  to  be  the  intellectual  High  Cham- 
berlain to  his  Majesty,  your  loving  Francis ;  neither  is 
he  ready  to  rule  France,"  said  the  limping  old  soldier. 

••  I  cannot  think  what  you  mean.  We  are  both  children  : 
I  know  that  full  well.  Madame  d'Angouleme  would  not 
let  him  do  wrong,  if  he  were  king.  But  I  want  to  be  true 
to  him,  if  I  may." 

The  simplicity  of  his  words,  his  evident  honesty  and 
love,  greatly  touched  Nouvisset ;  and  when  he  told 
Francis  and  his  mother,  they  wept,  and  the  haughty 
Louise  was  quite  tender  for  an  entire  afternoon. 

••Cruel  war  has  its  blessings,"  she  remarked.  "  Who 
could  have  framed  a  prettier  speech?  It  was  a  bright 
omen  for  us,  when  the  bright-eyed  companion  came  to 
him  who  shall  soon  be  king  of  France  ! "  and  she  stood 
by  the  side  of  her  tall,  excellently  proportioned  son, 
touched  his  rich  hair  with  her  hand  of  planning  affection, 
and  then  kissed  him. 

The  Due  d'Angouleme  felt  in  that  mother's  kiss  the 
stiffness  of  a  sceptre  which  she  would  certainly  wield. 
The  crown  of  France  really  seemed  to  have  been  lifted 
from  his  forehead  the  instant  her  slender  and  crafty 
hand  touched  his  hair;  and  Francis  was  haughty  and 
gloomy. 

ry  one  at  court  who  understood  the  feelings  of 
Francis  for  the  strange  youth,  was  worried  because  the 
latter  did  not  seem  happy  with  the  games  at  Amboise. 

"  He  must  be  amused ;  and  if  he  wants  the  compan- 
ionship of  an  army  of  scholars,  let  them  be  gathered 
together." 

The  mother  was  speaking  to  Francis,  her  son,  who 
was  deeply  troubled  at  the  sadness  of  his  companion. 

"  He  must  never  feel  himself  a  prisoner.  He  is  ac- 
customed to  the  mountains  and  great  landscapes ;  let 
him  have  the  wines,  and  let  some  one  teach  him  all 
the  games  of  chance  at  Amboise,"  added  she,  determined 


A   FRENCH  CHATEAU.  95 

to  conquer  the  sorrow  which  was  eating  up  the  life  of 
the  boy. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Nouvisset,  "  not  all  the  wines  of  France 
or  the  gambling  of  the  capital  will  charm  that  youth  from 
his  recollections  of  the  books  at  his  father's  cottage. 
Strange  he  does  not  long  for  him  !  He  seems  to  have 
bidden  a  decisive  farewell  to  his  father  and  sister,  be- 
lieving them  to  have  been  slain.  But  he  has  been  bred 
a  student.  His  brain  is  full  of  that  quenchless  ambition 
to  know,  which  characterizes  the  finest  sort  of  mind. 
He  is  a  child  of  learning ;  and  I  believe  him  to  be  the 
hope  of  your  son's  court.  I  ought  to  depart  this  day 
with  him  for  Chilly,  where  he  may  be  educated.  Pray 
do  not  keep  him,  gracious  Madame  !  even  for  your  son's 
present  enjoyment,  where  we  only  wait  for  Louis  XII. 
to  die." 

Francis  and  'Ami  —  for  it  was  Ami  Perrin  whose  fine 
face  and  bright  eye  had  made  way  for  admiration  of  the 
higher  qualities  and  more  important  possibilities  of  his 
nature  at  the  chateau  of  Amboise  —  had  been  exploring 
the  contents  of  the  bookcase,  which,  with  its  wired  front 
and  Florentine  silk  linings,  stood  prettily  near  the  window 
in  the  gallery.  Their  companionship  was  sweet  and  pro- 
foundly affectionate. 

The  secret  Francis  could  keep,  and  Ami's  innocent 
faith  pleased  him.  Ami  knew  himself  to  have  been 
brought  from  a  bloody  Waldensian  home.  In  the  fight 
between  the  soldiers  and  the  mountaineers,  he  remem- 
bered to  have  seen  the  hacked  wrists  of  his  father,  whom 
he  now  believed  to  be  in  a  grave  with  little  Alke.  He 
was  not  forgetful  of  that  stunning  blow  upon  his  own 
head,  from  the  effects  of  which  he  did  not  rally  until  he 
found  himself  in  the  hands  of  a  French  captain,  who  had 
nursed  him  to  consciousness  with  untiring  diligence. 
When  about  to  die  of  a  wound  which  Ami  knew  the 
soldier  received  from  Caspar  Perrin  himself,  he  had  lov- 


96  MO.YA'  A\D    K'XIGHT. 

ingly  given  the  convalescent  Ami  into  the  charge  of  the 
young  duke  Francis.  From  the  hour  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  this  royal  youth,  Ami  had  been  loved  with 
passionate  tenderness. 

An  astrologer  whom  Francis  had  consulted  hac  made 
it  clear  to  this  haughty  Due  d'Angouleme  that  in  this 
youth.  Ami.  Liy  fortune  and  destiny.  Ami  had  been  taken 
to  Paris.  The  brilliancy  of  the  court,  the  luxurious 
beauty  of  the  palaces,  the  interest  of  the  games,  the  un- 
imagined  delights  of  the  duke's  promises,  the  opening 
hopes  of  knighthood,  of  which  his  mother  had  told  him 
in  his  childhood ;  the  unique  position  which,  by  his 
training,  he  occupied  in  a  court  already  aglow  with  the 
lights  of  the  Renaissance,  —  all  these  made  life  seem  pic- 
turesque enough,  and  kept  his  spirit  from  perishing 
amidst  sorrowful  recollections. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    KING   UNDER   GOVERNANCE. 

The  twists  and  cracks  in  our  poor  earthenware, 
That  touch  me  to  more  conscious  fellowship 
(I  am  not  myself  the  finest  Parian) 
With  my  coevals. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

VERY  soon  Francis  himself  found  the  throne  upon 
which  this  friendship  had  seated  itself. 
At  the  death  of  Anne,  the  queen,  the  King  of  France 
desired  a  truce  with  England,  such  as  he  had  signed  with 
Ferdinand,  Maximilian,  and  the  Pope.  Princess  Mary, 
sister  of  young  Henry  VIII.,  was  made  a  pledge  of  peace, 
in  spite  of  the  disguised  opposition  of  the  mother  and 
guide  of  the  talented  Due  d'Angouleme.  As  the  young 
queen,  after  the  marriage,  appeared  in  her  regal  loveli- 
ness by  the  side  of  the  trembling  Louis  XII.,  the  reckless 
and  engaging  Francis  was  discovered  to  be  deeply  inter- 
ested in  her  beauty.  In  crises  such  as  this,  only  one 
man  had  hitherto  been  able  to  control  him.  -  Oh  for  Nou- 
visset  now,  to  keep  the  warm  heart  of  the  already  disso- 
lute Duke  Francis  from  burning  with  an  ardor  which  could 
not  be  controlled  in  the  presence  of  the  fair  English 
princess  !  In  this  instance  even  Nouvisset  had  failed, 
but  the  young  Ami  was  omnipotent. 
VOL.  i.  —  7 


«jS  MOXK  AND  KXIGIIT. 

Louise  of  Savoy  became  the  guardian  of  Mary.     Fran- 
is  persuaded  to  divide  his  time  between  Ami,  who 
A  ooed  him  back  to  honor,  and  the  pursuit  of  a  wiser 
course  than  that  which  would  permit  of  an  intrigue  with 
the  young  queen. 

In  all  those  efforts  to  prevent  the  imprudence  which 
Francis  had  resolved  upon,  the  cautious  Louise  ami 
visset,  whom  she  trusted,  were  unwillingly  learning  to  re- 
spect the  talents  and  admire  the  courageous  affection  of 
the  young  mountaineer.  His  conscience  emboldened 
his  love.  Where  no  knight  would  dare  to  tread,  where 
no  king  would  think  of  interfering,  even  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  imperious  Francis,  this  youth  had  entered; 
and  there  he  had  conquered  by  the  power  of  a  lofty 
friendship.  At  the  castle,  or  ten  miles  away,  from  the 
little  room  in  which  he  soon  found  himself  at  Chilly,  he 
was  soon  ruling  the  future  king. 

••  I  could  not  think  of  his  being  untrue  to  the  faithful 
Claude,"  said  he  to  v  t,  when  the  soldier  bade  him 

know  what  an  unaccountable  influence  he  exercised  upon 
the  fiery  soul  of  1 

;se  of  Savoy  was  angry,  and  then  was  persuaded  to 
be  wise. 

en  the  love  which  my  son  has  for  me  would  not 
have  availed  to  avert  his  impetuous  course  if  it  had  not 
been  reinforced  by  that  boy,"  said  Ixniise  of  Savoy,  half 
spitefully,  jealous  in  the  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the 
sovereign  power  which  she  proposed  to  exercise  on  the 
will  of  her  son  in  coming  years  must  often  be  wielded  by 
;  1  of  another. 

She  could  have  been  more  patient  if  the  boy  had  not 
failed  at  her  court,  the  real  cause  of  which  failure  an- 
noyed her  constantly.  It  cannot  be  said  that  Ami  had 
won  either  distinction  or  self-respect,  as  the  chosen  page 
of  the  arrogant  Loui>c.  He  had  received  no  training  as 
a  page;  besides.  Fr.mris  was  a  headstrong  youth,  who 


THE  KING   UNDER   GOVERNAA'CE.  99 

interfered  with  his  mother's  commands  and  had  his  own 
way,  which  was  often  very  consumptive  of  the  time  which 
Ami  would  otherwise  have  given  to  her  in  the  form  of 
obedient  attentions. 

Nouvisset  had  often  indicated  to  both  mother  and  son 
that  if  this  promising  lad  were  ever  to  become  a  knight 
and  a  scholar,  he  must  have  him  for  some  time  where  he 
could  give  him  proper  training.  The  youth  was  affec- 
tionately bound  to  Francis,  and  yet  was  ambitious  for 
knighthood  and  learning. 

At  last  the  golden  six  months  of  undisturbed  culture 
which  Ami  had  been  promised  with  Nouvisset,  came.  Louis 
XII.  would  not  die  ;  Francis  and  Marguerite  kissed  Ami 
farewell ;  Louise  of  Savoy  gave  him  a  book  on  Falconry 
and  her  blessings,  the  worth  of  which  latter  Ami  did  not 
overestimate ;  and  the  lame  knight  set  out  with  the 
young  student  for  Chilly,  which  was  a  village  four  leagues 
from  the  capital,  and  one  with  whose  peasant  population 
Nouvisset  was  perfectly  acquainted. 

There  was  never  a  more  lonely  youth  in  France  than 
Francis,  Due  d'Angouleme,  who,  since  his  marriage  to 
Princess  Claude,  was  also  Due  de  Valois.  He  was  be- 
sieged on  every  side  by  efforts  to  cause  him  to  forget  his 
young  protege"  ;  but  for  many  days  he  lived  stubbornly  in 
his  castle  of  solitude.  He  was  sufficiently  courteous  to 
be  a  pleasant  companion  ;  affectionate  enough  to  his  dar- 
ling sister  Marguerite  ;  sufficiently  full  of  the  policies  and 
ambitions  which  his  mother  shared,  to  study  matters  of 
state  ;  religious  enough  in  a  duke's  manner,  and  in  the 
manner  of  the  time,  to  give  hope  to  the  clergy  of  France  ; 
and  fully  as  fond  of  literature  and  art  as  seemed  well 
in  the  eyes  of  a  mother  who  did  not  much  enjoy  the 
grammars  and  manuscripts  of  which  the  nobly  made 
youth  was  so  studious.  Beneath  it  all  there  glowed  the 
passionate  friendship  of  Francis  for  Ami ;  and  above  all 
these  was  a  conviction  that  with  Ami's  future  were  bound 


100  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

up  the  best  destinies  of  the  kingdom,  for  which  he  hoped. 
The  astrologer  had  made  that  perfectly  plain. 

Even  Marguerite,  at  that  hour  dear  beyond  expression 
to  the  proud  Francis,  lisped  her  protest ;  turning  up  her 
pretty  face,  and  assuming  the  affectionate  authority  which 
her  two  years  of  seniority  gave  her,  when  she  said,  — 

"  Oh,  it  pains  me,  brother  and  lover  that  you  are  to 
me,  that  not  I,  but  a  boy  stolen  from  the  mountains, 
should  have  your  soul  in  his  keeping." 

"  Marguerite  of  Marguerites,"  said  he,  in  that  voice  of 
pathetic  tenderness  with  which  he  had  learned  to  pro- 
nounce the  words,  "  do  not  say  that  to  me.  I  love  you 
beyond  all  else  ;  yet  Ami  must  be  loved  also." 

Thus  early  in  their  friendship  began  the  strong  influ- 
ence of  the  orphaned  and  untitled  Waldensian  upon  a 
mind  fitted  in  many  respects  to  be  the  greatest  ruler  in 
Europe  ;  fitted  by  so  many  weaknesses,  if  we  may  so 
speak,  to  bring  upon  himself  and  his  country  so  much 
humiliation  and  shame. 

The  jealousy  of  Louise  of  Savoy  and  her  daughter 
Marguerite  was,  however,  more  than  matched  by  the  jeal- 
ousy of  this  youth,  whose  chief  weakness  of  character 
was  this  same  tormenting  passion.  Louise  of  Savoy 
thought  she  had  never  seen  jealousy  until  she  became 
better  acquainted  with  Ami  at  a  later  day.  Nouvisset  had 
remarked  to  the  watchful  Louise  and  the  affectionate 
Marguerite,  that  his  study  of  humanity  had  never  pro- 
cured for  him  such  an  interesting  problem  as  was  this 
engaging  boy. 

"  Surely  these  elaborate  attentions  paid  to  him  by  the 
court  have  grown  within  him  a  deadly  viper,"  said  the 
offended  Marguerite. 

"  With  the  fortune  of  a  waif  and  the  political  pros- 
pects of  a  foundling,  he  is  as  jealous  and  proud  of  his  in- 
fluence with  Francis,  who  will  be  soon  my  king,  as  though 
he  were  the  son  of  the  proudest  knight  or  the  director  of 


THE   KING    UNDER    GOVERWNCR,  ,        lOl 

the  duke's  fortunes,  appointed  by  the  saints  themselves," 
averred  Nouvisset  to  a  bosom  friend. 

The  lame  knight  did  not  then  rightly  judge  of  the 
boy's  political  prospects.  Never  did  a  boy  have  such  a 
future  in  France.  However,  Nouvisset  had  not  overesti- 
mated that  inborn  disposition  to  jealousy  which  had  al- 
ready manifested  itself  in  various  ways.  The  whole  fabric 
of  Ami's  spirit  was  shaken  when  he  saw  another  ruling  a 
realm  which  he  loved,  or  which  once  he  had  influenced. 
When  he  grew  homesick  for  the  mountains,  his  very 
jealousy  at  the  prospect  of  losing  his  self-control  bade 
the  tears  dry  suddenly  in  his  eyes ;  when  he  found  him- 
self the  prey  of  annoying  doubts  as  to  the  actual  death 
of  his  father  and  sister  at  the  hands  of  the  French  sol- 
diery, his  resolve  to  put  the  past  behind  him,  made  with 
the  fervency  of  young  blood,  stiffened  itself  with  the  jeal- 
ous apprehension  that  he  was  not  the  monarch  of  his 
own  soul,  and  doubt  was  banished.  Nothing  save  this 
jealous  regard  for  his  individual  will  kept  him  often  from 
breaking  down  completely.  Nothing  save  the  jealous 
perception  that  somebody  else  was  likely  to  exercise 
sovereignty  over  the  mind  of  his  royal  friend  Francis, 
could  have  disturbed  the  ardor  of  his  desire  to  study 
with  Nouvisset  at  Chilly.  His  instructor  saw  that  this 
was  the  concealed  fire,  likely  at  any  moment  to  break 
forth  and  consume  any  wise  plans  and  noble  ideas  which 
might  be  his.  Gifted,  supremely  gifted,  with  energies 
which  indicated  greatness  itself,  the  very  qualities  which 
made  him  promising  were  already  unsteady  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  inbred  passion. 

The  friendship,  nay,  the  devotion  of  Francis  unto  Ami 
was  such  that  he  really  delighted  in  this  unholy  spirit. 
He  was  also  foolish  enough  to  feed  its  flame.  He  had 
gloried  in  its  fury.  He  loved  to  be  loved,  as  he  thought, 
with  an  affectionateness  so  intolerant.  Against  the 
growth  of  such  an  evil  power,  Nouvisset,  on  the  other 


102  ,1/RVA'  AA'D   h'XlGHT. 

hand,  was  sure  to  place  all  wise  opposition.  He  knew 
Ami's  nature  so  thoroughly  that  nothing  but  the  fact  of 
heredity  could  explain  this  most  absurd  flame  so  often 
lighting  up  his  soul,  until  all  its  secret  recesses  were 
revealed.  He  henceforth  at  Chilly,  as  he  told  Margue- 
rite, would  keep  the  fuel  away  from  the  fire,  and  seek 
to  destroy  it  entirely. 

What  made  it  *till  more  difficult  to  be  dealt  with  was  the 
grandeur  it  often  assumed  in  its  association  with  a  stal- 
wart and  assertive  conscientiousness,  —  a  conscientious- 
ness which  had  been  bred  into  the  youth  by  generations 
of  ardent,  Waldensians.  Nouvisset,  tired  as  he  was  of 
the  falsity  of  the  French  court,  and  entirely  <  »n-(  ious  of 
the  utter  powerlessness  of  the  influence  of  the  Church  to 
control  human  life,  greatly  admired  such  a  conscience, 
standing  in  such  solemn  contrast  as  it  did  with  the 
cant,  sentimentalism,  and  iniquity  about  him.  He  saw 
that  Ami  always  touched  Francis  with  a  moral  power, 
healthful  and  refreshing.  The  youth  was  jealous,  as  it 
often  seemed,  because  of  the  fact  that  he  was  right  and 
others  who  flitted  about  the  young  king  presumptive 
were  wrong. 

One  day  Nouvisset  ventured  to  say  to  Marguerite  :  "  I 
could  not  think  of  attempting  to  diminish  Ami's  power 
over  our  Due  de  Valois  so  long  as  Francis  has  any  love 
for  the  good  and  true.  It  would  seem  as  though  I 
had  not  a  care  for  good  morals.  Something  must  be 
had  here  in  France  to  keep  things  from  going  to  utter 
destruction ; "  and  then  the  conversation  drifted  into 
statements  and  wonderings  about  the  influence  of  the 
Reformers. 

From  that  moment  Marguerite  herself,  who  had  great 
confidence  in  the  judgment  and  honor  of  Nouvisset, 
was  noticed  to  be  more  tolerant  toward  those  who  in- 
sisted upon  the  necessity  for  reform  within  the  Holy 
Catholic  Church. 


THE  KING   UNDER   GOVERNANCE.  103 

At  that  juncture  also  did  Nouvisset,  of  whom  we  know 
too  little,  disclose  some  new  and  many  old  characteristics 
with  which  the  friends  of  Francis,  Due  de  Valois,  would 
become  very  familiar.  He  was  just  such  a  man  as  at 
that  hour  in  the  history  of  France  often  found  his  way 
into  the  army  of  priests  which  thronged  the  cathedrals 
and  monasteries,  the  army  of  soldiers  which  gathered 
about  a  king,  or  the  army  of  those  who  were  either 
affecting  or  realizing  the  scholarly  ideals.  The  name 
Nouvisset  would  denote  a  Frenchman ;  but  this  man 
was  a  Greek,  who  had  changed  his  name,  for  reasons 
which  were  satisfactory  to  him  and  to  his  sovereign. 

Louis  XII.  was  the  first  monarch  to  allow  the  stradiots 
a  place  in  the  French  army.  These  mercenaries  had 
hawked  their  services  about  Europe,  offering  them  for 
sale  to  the  highest  bidder.  The  Turk  was  poor  and 
proud ;  the  Christian  was  needy,  but  also  rich ;  and  the 
papal  legate  at  the  side  of  the  French  king  rejoiced  as 
their  vizorless  helmets  charmed  the  sunbeams,  and  the 
huge  cross-handed  swords  which  they  carried  pledged  a 
new  power  against  the  infidels.  Amongst  them  all,  none 
had  presented  so  fine  an  appearance  as  had  the  merce- 
nary whom  we  shall  know  as  Nouvisset.  He  was  formed 
for  knighthood.  The  cuirass  with  gracefully  flowing 
sleeves,  and  with  the  gauntlets  in  mail,  was  half  concealed 
and  half  revealed  by  a  sort  of  jacket,  which  fitted  with  no 
disadvantage  a  form  of  dignity  and  grace,  in  whose  pres- 
ence the  classical  devices  which  had  been  worked  with 
such  care  and  freedom  on  his  sword,  the  less  beautiful 
small-arms  carried  at  the  saddle-bow,  and  the  long  lance 
appeared  to  connect  the  new  and  barbaric  West  with  the 
ancient  and  cultured  East. 

Nouvisset,  long  years  before,  had  felt  the  raptures 
and  pains  of  love  by  the  blue  ^Egean.  He  had  read 
from  Theocritus  to  his  Grecian  damsel  in  vain.  He  had 
told  her  how  Aspasia  must  have  loved  Pericles,  without 


IO4  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

eliciting  a  hint  of  the  energetic  response  he  craved.  On 
the  unfortunate  issue  of  this  affection  he  had  recklessly 
attached  himself  to  a  conscienceless  band  of  hirelings, 
and  being  almost  companionless  —  for  he  was  a  scholar, 
and  of  most  gentle  breeding  —  he  found  himself  at  last 
a  servant  of  Louis  XII.  of  France,  at  wages  which  galled 
his  fine  soul. 

Chance,  however,  very  soon  brought  him  to  the  notice 
of  two  men  with  whose  careers  French  history  has  had 
much  to  do.  He  had  previously  won  the  praise  and 
friendly  association  of  Chevalier  Hayard,  sans  pcur  et 
sans  reprochc ;  but  on  the  battle-field  of  Ravenna  he 
had  completely  captured  his  heart.  There,  in  those  same 
woods  of  pine,  where  Dante  passed  days  and  nights  in 
repeating  the  growing  verses  of  the  "  Divine  Comedy," 
where  Boccaccio  had  dreamed  of  Honoria,  where  the 
English  Dryden  would  one  day  reinspire  his  genius,  and 
Lord  Byron  would  make  into  song  his  experiences  of 
and  of  love,  —  the  heroic  spirit  of  the  Greek,  who 
never  forgot  the  fact  of  his  extraction  from  the  loins 
of  a  soldier  of  Marathon,  displayed  its  excellent  quality. 
Often  as  the  fearless  Chevalier  told  the  story  oi 
visset's  courage  and  sympathy  to  the  good  heart  of 
Louis  XII.,  he  would  forget  the  blood-tracked  marsh, 
ling  far  to  the  white  Alps  and  the  blue  Apennines, 
the  gory  fen  which  rivalled  the  red  afterglow  glaring 
upon  the  summits,  the  golden  lilies  and  pink  tamarisks 
which  were  trodden  down  by  the  corseleted  soldiers, 
the  orchises  whose  purple  splendor  hung  above  the  faces 
of  the  dying,  the  gleaming  marigolds  which  made  a 
flaming  pillow  for  the  dead,  all  the  ardent  valor  which 
marched  through  the  shallow  canal  in  the  MTV  face  of 
blazing  Spanish  artillery,  even  the  awful  suddenness  of 
silence  which  came  to  the  blaring  trumpets  and  piercing 
clarions  when  the  agoni/ing  shout  went  up,  "  ( 
is  dead!" — all  thrM  \\vre  forgone*.  ird  sought 


THE  KING    UNDER   GOVERNANCE. 


I05 


to  utter  his  feelings  of  admiring  love   for  Nouvisset's 
incredible  effort  to  save  him. 

The  very  soul  of  knighthood  looked  through  the  eyes 
of  the  Greek  mercenary.  "  Sire,  I  thought  I  could  see 
the  ghost  of  his  ancestor  at  his  side  fighting  at  the 
Milvian  Bridge,"  said  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  as  he  told 
the  story  of  Nouvisset  at  Ravenna. 

In  a  controversy  concerning  the  "  Oration  on  the 
Crown,"  which  rose  between  two  men  of  the  court  where 
Nouvisset  was  doing  duty,  something  had  been  said  as 
to  the  patriotism  of  Demosthenes.  French  wit,  spite- 
fully refusing  the  Renaissance,  dared  to  impugn  the  mo- 
tives of  the  great  Greek  orator.  A  poor  and  unlearned 
Greek  stood  by,  silently  wishing  that  his  position  and 
learning  might  justify  his  defending  the  eloquence  of  his 
native  land.  Ignorance  seemed  sure  to  triumph,  whe 
this  stalwart  hireling  Nouvisset,  unable  to  endure  the 
attack  longer,  painted  such  a  picture  of  the  times,  and 
so  justly  rendered  the  burning  words  of  the  eloquent  foe 
of  Philip,  that  the  poet  who  at  that  moment  influenced 
the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  France  most  strongly 
with  his  own  eagerness  for  scholarly  attainment,  leaped 
toward  him  and  embracing  him,  cried  out :  "  'T  is  well. 
I  never  saw  you  before.  I  am  the  master  of  these," 
pointing  to  the  gathered  crowd  of  courtiers.  "  You  are 
mine  ! " 

It  was  the  poet  Clement  Marot,  who  was  to  teach 
Marguerite  d'Angouleme  love  and  rhyming,  and  to  be 
compelled  at  a  later  day  to  withdraw  himself  from 
France,  under  the  complimentary  charge  of  heresy. 

These  two  events  in  the  life  of  Nouvisset  had  given 
him  a  unique  place  at  court. 

Nouvisset,  who  had  mastered  knighthood  and  his  pre- 
cious books,  was  now  feeling  the  burden  of  advancing 
years.  The  wound  received  at  Ravenna,  as  he  sought 
to  save  the  illustrious  Gaston  de  Foix,  had  incapacitated 


106  AfO.YA'  A.\D   K'XIGHT. 

him  for  any  active  service,  and  commended  him  to  the 
deepest  affections  of  the  king. 

He  had  seen  many  changes  in  France,  but  none  which 
interested  his  hope  more  deeply  than  the  consequences 
which  had  followed  the  setting  up  of  a  printing-press  in 
the  Sorbonne  by  Lows  XII.  in  1469,  and  the  refusal  of 
that  monarch  to  persecute  what  in  England  was  known 
as  "  the  new  learning,"  —  none,  except,  perhaps,  the  ob- 
vious growth  of  the  feeling  that  unhappy  France,  through 
the  Church  which  overawed  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
life  of  Christendom,  was  becoming  barren  of  any  percep- 
tion of  the  radical  difference  between  right  and  wrong, 
and  that  she  was  dimly  searching  after  some  higher  moral 
motive  power.  Of  course,  he  looked  upon  all  moral  and 
mental  phenomena  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  Greek. 
He  had  never  been  won  over  to  the  chun  hmanship  of 
Louise  of  Savoy,  who  had  often,  amidst  her  shameless 
(rimes,  explained  to  him  the  transparent  theory  and  de- 
lightful practice  of  the  '•  indulgences."  From  the  igno- 
rance of  the  clergy  he  fled  to  his  Attic  treasures,  to  be 
refreshed  and  fed ;  and  from  the  iniquity  and  religiosity 
of  the  devotees  in  Chun  h  and  State  he  hied  himself  to 
Plato  and  Socrates,  and  there  he  was  reinspired.  They, 
at  least,  were  less  superstitious  and  more  serious.  The 
Greek  concluded  each  day,  with  the  words  of  the  heathen 
moralist :  "  Be  of  good  cheer  about  death,  and  know 
this  of  a  truth,  —  that  no  evil  can  happen  to  a  good 
man,  either  in  life  or  after  death." 

How  could  he  be  true  to  the  ambitious  designs  of 
Louise  of  Savoy  with  respect  to  Ami's  faith  and  Ami's 
influence  upon  her  son  Francis,  and  still  faithful  to  these 
his  own  soul's  best  convictions?  He  seemed  to  foresee 
it  all.  He  made  a  resolve.  Ami  would  certainly  be 
charmed  into  the  deepest  devotion  unto  the  Holy  Catho- 
lic Church.  That  event  no  single  teacher  could  prevent. 
Omnipotence  only  could  oppose  successfully  the  multitu- 


THE  KING   UNDER    GOVERNANCE. 


107 


dinous  schemes  which  would  surely  bind  him  to  her 
altars.  But  Nouvisset  knew  that  that  Waldensian  spirit 
which  Ami  breathed  would  by  and  by  assert  its  inwrought 
protest.  Meanwhile  he  would  quietly  sow  those  seeds 
of  philosophy  in  Ami's  mind  which  would  spring  to  life  at 
some  distant  day,  when  the  drops  of  heroic  blood,  which 
must  soon  flow,  began  to  touch  them.  He  would  sow 
the  seed,  and  bide  his  time. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

WITCHES   AND    KNIGHTS. 

"  Cuer  resolu  d'aultre  chose  na  cure 

Que  de  1'honneur, 

Le  corps  vaincu  le  cueur  reste  vaincqueur, 
Le  travail  est  1'estuve  de  sun  heur." 

ONE  night,  in  the  home  of  the  peasant  which  Nou- 
t  had  selected  as  the  place  in  which  he  would 
instruct  and  train  the  chosen  friend  of  the  coming  king, 
Ami  had  quietly  calculated  that  just  five  years  had  gone, 
since  he,  a  struggling  and  terrified  child,  beheld  the  de- 
scent of  the  French  invaders  from  the  monastery  on  the 
hill ;  the  scenes  of  carnage  in  that  humble  cottage  which 
was  bumed  ;  the  staggering  form  of  his  dying  father  hold- 
ing out  his  hacked  wrists,  as  he  piteously  cried,  "  You 
have  killed  my  little  Alke  ;  I  am  stricken  to  death ;  spare 
my  child  Ami,  oh,  spare  him  ! " 

The  mind  of  the  young  man  which  the  patient  Greek 
had  thus  far  so  carefully  educated,  had  long  been  poised 
between  two  thoughts.  One  was,  "  I  love  the  memory 
of  my  father  and  little  Alke."  The  other  was,  "  I  love 
those  who  have  obeyed  the  dying  man's  pleading  cry, 
and  have  opened  my  soul  to  such  a  vast  future."  The 
glamour  of  his  recent  associations  ;  the  fact  that  he  knew 
himself  to  be  influential  with  Prince  Francis  d'Angouleme  ; 
the  recollections  of  his  mother's  ambition  that  he  should 


WITCHES  AND  KNIGHTS  109 

be  a  knight,  and  the  probability  of  its  attainment ;  the 
memory  of  his  father's  hope  that  he  should  be  a  scholar, 
and  the  probability  of  its  realization  also,  —  all  were  in 
league  with  a  certain  powerful  tendency  toward  court-life 
which  he  had  inherited  from  his  Italian  mother,  who,  as 
we  have  seen,  was  a  daughter  of  Count  Neforzo  of  Ven- 
ice. Whatever  might  happen  in  later  days,  when  the 
wild  romanticism  of  youth  had  been  shot  through  with 
the  steady  light  of  conscience,  this  devotion  to  Francis 
was  now  sure  to  furnish  the  aim  and  temper  of  his  young 
manhood. 

Nouvisset  had  been  commanded  to  do  but  one  thing. 
"  Prepare  him  to  be  the  companion  and  friend  of  my 
loving  son,"  said  Louise  of  Savoy,  as  she  gave  up  her 
page,  and  placed  many  bright  coins  in  the  hands  of  the 
lame  knight. 

It  was  a  many-sided  culture  which  Nouvisset  was  able 
to  give  to  Ami  and  his  young  friend  at  Chilly.  Often- 
times to  the  Greek  it  appeared  that  his  charge  had  been 
removed  from  the  superstitions  which  haunt  a  court,  to 
those,  less  magnificent  but  more  intense,  which  beset  a 
peasant's  home. 

While  at  the  castle  Francis  was  explaining  to  his 
mother  the  efforts  of  the  astrologer  who  made  it  clear 
that  Ami  was  to  be  his  good  daemon,  yonder  at  the  house 
in  Chilly  the  following  colloquy  was  going  on  :  — 

"  A  witch  with  a  red  hood  and  golden  toes  must  have 
been  beautiful,"  said  Francesco  de  Robo,  a  young  Italian 
who  had  been  allowed  to  be  a  companion  of  Ami  at 
Chilly  by  Admiral  Andrea  Doria,  an  ally  of  France,  who 
desired  his  promising  protege",  Francesco,  to  be  educated 
also. 

To  him  and  to  Ami  the  peasant's  loquacious  wife  had 
been  relating  her  experience  with  witches. 

"Yes,  all  but  her  ugly  face,"  slowly  answered  she,  as 
she  left  the  large  room  in  which  the  husband  and  she 


I  10  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

lived,  and  in  the  evening  shared  with  Nouvisset  and  the 
two  youths.  The  door  squeaked  with  a  ghostly  sound, 
as  she  jerked  and  shut  it. 

They  were  silent  for  some  minutes ;  for  even  then 
witchcraft  had  no  delight  to  imaginative  young  men,  as 
the  evening  darkness  came  on.  Nouvisset  and  the 
ant  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  hunt  for  hares  on 
which  they  had  set  out  many  hours  before.  The  evening 
tasks  had  fallen  to  the  peasant's  wife.  She  had  herself 
gone  out  to  the  first  of  the  three  buildings  which  con- 
stituted the  dwelling  of  a  villein.  It  was  called  the  cow- 
house. The  "ugly  face"  which  she  had  just  mentioned 
seemed  to  appear  ami  r  in  the  crackling  fire, 

which  had  been  made  of  vine  branches  and  fagots,  and 
which  furnished  a  flame  that  surged  up  a  wide  chimney. 
There  were  also  very  strange  nuises  on  the  thatched 
roof. 

here,  I  see  her  face  just  above  the  iron-pot  hanger  !  " 
whispered  Francesco,  frightened  almost  to  silence. 

Ami,  with  the  cool  rationalism  which  had  made  his 
father  a  heretic  with  respect  to  so  many  other  phantoms, 
leaped  to  the  side  of  the  chimney,  seized  the  heavy 
shovel,  and  smote  vigorously  the  tripod  and  caldron  and 
meat-hook  in  turns,  half  destroying  both  his  weapon 
•ind  the  good  housekeeper's  utensils. 

"  I   will   damage  her  golden  toes,"   said   the   fearless 

•\(\  the  very  Devil  will  drag  us  both  into  hell,  if  you 
don't  stop  !  "  cried  Francesco,  with  a  shudder.  "  Stop,  I 
beg  you  !  Do  not  fight  against  a  witch." 

•i  Ami  wished  the  peasant's  wife  had  not  left  them 
alone ;  for  he  certainly  saw  a  face  just  then  in  a  curling 
flame,  and  he  heard  a  sound  from  above  him  which 
made  him  tremble.  He  felt  cold,  and  yet  he  did  not 
go  near  the  fire.  He  walked  over  to  the  table,  instead, 
on  which  stood  a  kneading-trough  and  a  bit  of  cheese. 


WITCHES  AND  KNIGHTS.  \\\ 

There  had  been  two  pieces  of  cheese  on  that  same  table 
but  a  few  minutes  before. 

"Francesco,  did  you  eat  the  other  bit  of  cheese?" 

"  No ;  nor  did  she,  for  she  likes  it  not,"  replied  the 
Italian,  with  interesting  precipitation. 

"  What  became  of  it,  then?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.  Ami,  I  wish  I  was  back  in  a  strong 
castle,  where  I  could  bar  the  door  and  call  the  soldiers. 
That  witch  with  the  ugly  face  has  taken  the  cheese." 

"  It  would  do  no  good,  if  we  could  bar  a  door  of  steel. 
Witches  like  to  come  through  impossible  barriers,  don't 
they?  Do  they  eat  cheese,  Francesco?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so ;  but  I  never  saw  a  witch  where 
there  was  not  some  sickly  woman  about.  Why  did  Nou- 
visset  bring  us  here?  Oh,  witches!  They  don't  infest 
the  ships  of  Admiral  Andrea  Doria.  The  peasant's  wife 
never  sees  a  witch  when  the  peasant  himself  and  Nou- 
visset  are  here." 

"  But  the  duke  —  even  Francis  d'Angouleme  has  seen 
them.  I  waited  with  him  for  a  whole  night,  to  see  one 
who  had  come  to  his  mother.  She  looked  fierce  enough, 
with  a  hook  on  her  ear,  and  she  had  a  head  of  fire.  The 
Duke  Francis  wanted  her  to  come  —  I  mean  he  wanted 
the  witch  to  come.  He  was  sure  she  would  return,  and 
tell  him  of  the  death  of  the  king." 

Ami  was  fast  losing  his  rationalistic  temper,  as  the  lit- 
tle gimlet,  which  lay  near  the  elbow  of  Francesco,  was 
pushed  off  the  table  and  fell  upon  the  hand-mill  in 
which  the  peasant's  wife  was  about  to  grind  the  corn 
which  she  had  now  gone  to  fetch.  The  shock  seemed 
to  fill  the  huge  fireplace  with  ugly  faces.  Ami  prepared 
himself  to  fence.  Knighthood,  however,  never  seemed 
so  futile  and  unimpressive. 

Francesco  pushed  himself  backward  among  the  bas- 
kets, which  behaved  under  his  feet  as  if  they  were  alive ; 
and  suddenly  feeling  a  twinge  of  pain,  he  cried  out,  — 


I  I  2  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  This  is  an  infernal  place  !  Ami,  a  witch  has  pinched 
me,  or  pricked  me  with  her  needle.  I  know  what  1 
feel  in  my  own  flesh.  Don't  strike  at  another  witch  :  " 
he  added,  as  he  saw  the  knightly  Ami  approach,  brar 
dishing  a  small  jug,  instead  of  a  sword,  in  his  sinew; 
hand. 

"  Come  away  from  that  dark  corner ! "  commanded 
Ami,  still  belligerent. 

Francesco  started  to  obey,  and  cried  out  again,  "  She 
has  pinched  me  !  " 

"  Jump  out  of  the  way  of  her  !  "  said  Ami. 

"  Oh,  my  arm  is  held  fast  by  the  hideous  teeth  of  a 
veritable  witch  !  "  yelled  Francesco. 

Ami  knew  that  his  friend  was  in  great  pain ;  but  he 
was  afraid  to  strike  or  to  seek  to  relieve  him.  Nouvi^et 
had  never  told  him  what  a  knight  should  do  under  such 
circumstances.  Ami  called  lustily  for  the  peasant's  wife, 
who  from  the  cow-house  informed  him  that  she  was 
performing  what  seems  to  the  reader  a  very  modern 
thing,  —  setting  a  trap  for  mice  and  using  a  bit  of  cheese 
for  bait. 

"  There  !  that  cheese  is  in  the  trap ;  there  are  no 
witches  here,"  said  he. 

In  an  angry  voice  Francesco  replied  :  "  Am  I  a  knave 
or  a  fool,  that  you  disbelieve  me  ?  My  aching  arm  i-  yd 
held  fast  by  her  fierce  tooth.  You  need  not  help  me, 
but  you  must  not  doubt  me." 

Boldly  —  for  his  knightly  honor  had  suffered  —  did  the 
Waldensian  now  take  hold  of  the  suffering  Francesco. 
The  Italian  was  leaning  forward  as  he  had  been  since  he 
felt  the  pain,  both  hands  grasping  the  table  as  though,  if 
he  lost  his  hold  upon  that  fact  of  this  world,  he  would 
fall  into  purgatory.  His  forehead  was  studded  with  cold 
sweat-drops,  when  Ami  found  a  small  line  which  seemed 
to  bind  his  friend  fast  to  the  skin  blouse  whose  leathern 
acesco  swayed  backward  and  forward,- 


WITCHES  AND  KNIGHTS.  113 

and  pulled  it  far  out  from  the  hook  on  which  the  peas- 
ant had  hung  it. 

"  This  —  is  —  a  —  fish-line  !  "  said  the  breathless  Ami, 
with  mingled  terror  and  disgust. 

"Am  I  a  fool  or  a  knave?"  thundered  Francesco, 
with  his  voice  full  of  agony. 

"  Well,  neither,"  replied  his  friend,  with  the  speed  of 
gradual  discovery ;  "  but  you  have  one  of  the  peasant's 
fish-hooks  in  your  arm,  as  sure  as  you  are  alive." 

"The  witch  put  it  there  ;  she  did  !  "  said  the  Italian, 
more  disgusted  still,  because  he  had  been  so  victimized. 
"  The  miserable  witch  did  it.  Do  you  hear  her  now 
scampering  off  on  the  roof?  " 

The  friends  sat  down  by  the  huge  fireplace.  Ami 
needed  not  the  knife,  which  he  had  just  drawn  from  the 
sheath  which  had  been  hanging  from  the  belt  of  the 
peasant's  coat.  He  did  need  a  great  deal  of  forced 
solemnity,  however,  as  he  listened  to  Francesco,  who 
possessed  not  a  grain  of  humor,  who  never  doubted  the 
existence  of  variously  organized  supernatural  beings, 
least  of  all,  that  of  witches,  and  who  had  begun  to  tell 
Ami  about  the  witches  of  Italy  when  Nouvisset  and  the 
peasant  returned  from  the  hunt. 

"  You  are  both  as  pale  as  ghosts,"  said  the  Greek,  as 
they  rose  to  greet  him  and  to  relieve  the  weary  arms  of 
the  lame  knight  of  the  burden  of  two  fat  hares. 

"  Well,  we  have  seen  strange  things,"  said  Francesco. 

"And  felt  some  of  them  too,"  added  Ami. 

"  Did  you  see  the  wild-cats  chasing  over  the  roof? " 
liaid  Nouvisset. 

"  No  ! "  answered  both,  believing  for  the  instant  that 
truth  is  stranger  than  fiction. 

"  Did  you  hear  .the  unchivalrous   peasant  laugh  and 

poke  his  rough  fun  at  his  wife,  caught  out  there  in  his 

mouse-trap  as  she  was,  and  too  much  annoyed  at  being 

caught  to  ask  a  young  knight  to  extricate  her  fingers?" 

VOL.  i.  —  8 


IT4  MONiC  AND  ICNIGHT. 

isset  could  not  but  laugh,  as  he  related  the  tale 
of  her  woes.  "  She  has  been  entrapped  this  long  while. 
The  rats  will  flee  the  premises,  if  they  hear  the  peasant 
laugh  and  hear  her  scold  him.  She  blamed  the  trap  and 
the  cheese ;  and  she  blamed  the  young  knights,  who. 
she  says,  made  a  great  howl  in  the  house  here,  and  then 
called  out  at  her.  She  is  full  of  wrath." 

\\  Francesco  smiled  at  this,  and  desired  to  give  the 
conversation  a  new  turn. 

"There  are  too  mmy  men  present  here  now,  for 
any  witch  to  come  to  this  house  to-night,"  said  Ami. 
quietly. 

Francesco  gave  his  companion  to  understand  that  any 
further   information   concerning   the    fright,  granted    to 
sset  or  to  the  household,  would  offend  his  dignity; 
and  while  silent,  but  pained  at  having  to  remain 

so,  the   1 une < -  >   them,  as  he  had  often 

done,  the  advantages  he  had  sought  to  offer  them  at 
Chilly.  He  told  t:  n  of  Socrates  and  his  disci- 

ples, how  impossible  it  was  to  do  anything  at  any 
court  for  them,  and  of  the  desire  of  their  best  friends 
that  they  should  know  the  country  as  they  knew  their 
books.  He  concluded  by  remarking :  "  Wisdom  does 
not  live  in  castles;  the  chivalry  of  ideas  avoids  the 

While  the  discipline  of  Nouvisset  was  vigorous  and  un- 
yielding, both  Ami  and  Francesco  indulged  themselves 
often  in  good-humored  raillery  as  to  their  conduct  as 
young  aspirants  for  knighthood,  and  as  students  who 
took  on  trust  their  changed  circumstances. 

Here,  at  Chilly,  was  no  Louise  of  Savoy,  whose  wines 
Ami  was  to  pour  out,  whose  cooked  hares  he  might 
carve,  whose  letters  he  might  write  and  carry  to  Duprat 
or  the  Due  de  Bourbon  ;  but  so  eagerly  did  he  seize  the 
great  idea  of  respect  for  womankind  which  inspired 
chivalry,  that  the  neophyte  having  astonished  Nouvisset 


WITCHES  AND  KNIGHTS. 


115 


Dy  his  choice  of  a  rather  loquacious  egg-seller  in  Chilly, 
as  his  lady  whom  he  would  serve,  lavished  upon  this 
quaintest  of  peasantwomen  a  thoroughly  chivalrous  de- 
votion, as  he  recounted  to  her  his  imagined  deeds  of 
valor.  Nouvisset  was  not  altogether  unwilling  to  see 
this,  inasmuch  as  he  had  often  said  to  them :  "  The 
peasantwoman  of  unhappy  France  needs  a  knightly 
protector.  True  knighthood  seeks  the  weakest,  not  the 
strongest,  that  it  may  be  truly  chivalric." 

With  no  little  amazement  did  Francesco,  who  was 
proud  of  his  Italian  relationship,  behold  his  friend  Ami 
on  one  Good  Friday,  carrying  for  the  woman,  to  the 
priests,  a  basket  of  eggs  which  had  been  duly  boiled  in 
a  madder  bath,  which  now  only  needed  the  blessing  to  fit 
them  for  the  already  strained  appetites  which  had  waited 
to  enjoy  them  on  Easter  Sunday. 

Practising  at  wielding  the  sword,  they  grew  strong  in 
muscular  development,  and  soon  the  lances  were  bran- 
dished with  graceful  ease.  Combats  were  arranged  and 
duels  fought,  while  Nouvisset  sat  robed  in  august  dignity. 
The  peasant  and  his  wife  were  amused ;  and  the  talka- 
tive egg-seller,  pausing  with  her  stick,  from  whose  ex- 
tremities dangled  two  filled  baskets,  laughed  heartily,  and 
always  urged  Ami  to  some  braver  task. 

"  You  will  be  made  an  esquire,  surely ;  you  are  a  fit 
one  for  a  queen,"  she  cried  out. 

Before  the  door  of  the  peasant's  home,  Nouvisset  had 
set  up  the  revolving  image  of  a  knight;  and  often 
through  the  morning  many  of  the  Parisian  chivalry  who 
had  been  invited  by  Francis  himself  to  pass  a  day  at 
Chilly,  observed  the  youths  playing  at  the  game  of  quin- 
tain. Ami  was  ever  the  favorite  in  the  saddle.  His 
good  temper,  his  unfailing  wisdom,  communicated  them- 
selves to  the  steed ;  and  until  jealousy  of  another's  in- 
fluence over  the  good-will  of  the  Duke  Francis  appeared, 
he  managed  shield,  lance,  and  charger  with  complete 


Il6  J/aVA'  AND  KXIGHT. 

dexterity.  Gauntlet,  sword,  and  cuirass  always  came 
into  awkward  and  ungainly  positions,  —  his  very  vision  of 
the  desired  accolade  faded  from  view,  —  when  this  abom- 
inable passion  was  roused. 

It  had  been  the  effort  of  Nouvisset  to  quench  it,  if  pos- 
sible ;  and  therefore  Prince  Francis  had  not  often  visits  1 
("hilly.  Franrfsro  was  sure  to  be  more  successful  in  any 
sort  of  tournament  on  those  occasions,  and  the  result  of 
a  month's  labor  with  Ami  was  destroyed. 

As  the  days  came  and  went,  obvious  progress  was 
made.  The  youths  praised  the  already  celebrated  white 
bread  of  Chilly.  Anything  was  preferable,  in  Ami's  expe- 
rience, to  eating  luxuries  with  Louise  of  Savoy.  Ami 
praised  the  oil  whi<  h  grew  rancid  before  Lent  was 
passed,  though  Francesco  suggested  obtaining  a  dis- 
pensation from  the  Pope  which  would  enable  them  to 
eat  butter. 

Ami  even  rationalistically  reflected  upon  the  situation, 
when  the  egg-seller  trudged  along  through  Lent,  unable 
to  get  a  living,  — 

"  Now  the  theologians  teach  that  the  hen  is  a  water 
animal.  The  hymn  in  the  service  implies  that  fish  and 
fowl  were  made  at  the  same  time.  You  ought  to  sell  us 
eggs  with  the  fish." 

She  answered  him  by  saying :  "  There  is  much  vile 
heresy  in  the  world.  Do  you  think  I  would  lose  my 
soul,  you  varlet  ?  " 

It  was  difficult  often  for  the  Waldensian  to  overcome 
his  inbred  heretical  disposition  on  fast  days.  The  peas- 
KS  an  artist  at  fattening  a  poulanlr.  Ami  had  been 
instructed  to  believe  that  Louis  XII.  had  agreed  with  the 
Duke  Francis  that  they  should  lack  nothing  at  Chilly  to 
make  them  comfortable.  Lent  was  a  fearful  trial.  As 
Ami  looked  upon  the  flock  of  geese  which  the  pious 
peasant  drove  to  the  field  to  feed  every  day,  his  sinewy- 
youth  remembered  the  current  saying :  "  Who  eats  the 


WITCHES  AND  KNIGHTS.  117 

king's  goose  returns  his  feathers  in  a  hundred  years." 
He  became  desperately  weary  of  the  whole  Catholic 
regimen  ;  and  Nouvisset  was  not  concerned  that  the  or- 
thodoxy of  the  time  grew  distasteful  to  him. 

"  Make  him  a  knight  and  a  scholar  !  "  —  this  demand 
of  Louise  of  Savoy  was  given  a  barely  literal  interpreta- 
tion. "  Some  one  else,"  said  he,  "  must  furnish  his  theo- 
logical culture.  I  hope  it  will  be  Berquin,  Lefevre,  or 
Farel."  The  thought  that  the  already  suspected  Lefevre 
or  the  young  William  Farel,  especially  that  Louis  de 
Berquin,  should  get  hold  of  this  youth,  was  itself  a  prom- 
ise that  the  Church  would  not  quench  the  better  lights 
of  his  mind  and  moral  sense. 

After  many  months  of  training,  the  day  at  length  came 
nigh  for  that  religious  ceremony  which  was  to  mark  a 
changed  social  condition.  Francesco  and  Ami  were  to 
see  their  arms  hallowed.  Their  knightly  calling  was  to 
be  made  sacred.  Cased  in  armor  of  the  most  brilliant 
sort,  the  gifts  of  the  duke  and  Andrea  Doria  to  their 
proteges,  they  had  mounted  the  two  excellent  chargers 
which  were  to  carry  them  to  the  Cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame. 

"  It  is  too  heavy ;  I  '11  fall  and  kill  them  all,  —  all  my 
hens,  Holy  Mother  !  " 

"  Go  on,  heretic  !  go  on  !  Get  up,  sinner !  go,  and 
do  penance  afterward  !  " 

The  noisy  voices  of  the  priest  of  Chilly  and  the  egg- 
seller  mingled  their  discordant  tones. 

"  I  did  not  eat  eggs  myself,"  cried  the  egg- seller. 

"  I  did  see  the  shells  of  eggs  at  your  own  door.  Will 
you —  dare  you  lie  to  a  priest?"  yelled  the  ecclesiastic, 
who  lifted  his  heavy  cane  above  her. 

"  I  cooked  the  eggs  for  the  young  knight.  He  told 
me  that  hens  and  fish  came  on  one  day,  just  alike.  The 
teachers  said  so." 

Ami  saw  it  all  in  an  instant.     The  faithful  old  egg- 


seller  had  believed  the  faithless  youth.  She  was  sure 
that  he  could  not  lie  to  her.  Loving  him,  as  she  did, 
pitying  the  hunger  of  so  beautiful  a  youth,  she  had  dared 
to  prepare  him  some  eggs,  —  that  was  her  sin.  Of  course 
the  shells  proved  the  indictment.  She  had  been  eating 
eggs  in  Lent !  She  must  be  punished.  Here  she  came. 
All  her  sinful  hens  which-  had  ventured  to  lay  eggs  in 
Lenten  season  were  tied  together  by  the  same  great 
.  cord  ;  and  they  were  cackling  their  protest  against 
being  thus  wrapped  about  her  neck,  like  a  living  rope  of 
flesh  and  feathers  which  also  covered  her  shoulders  and 
fell  upon  the  ground.  The  priest  came  after  her,  making 
her  suffer  this  public  punishment,  in  addition  to  the  labor 
which  the  task  involved,  to  which  she  was  evidently 
unequal. 

:he  condemned  woman  came  near,  Ami  recognized 
her.  He  leaped  from  his  horse.  There  was  a  sudden 
stopping  of  the  flash  of  steel,  as  it  flamed  through  the 
air  ;  then  a  howling  priest  tumbled  into  a  ravine  near  the 
roadway;  and  Ami,  with  knightly  grace,  cut  the  cord 
with  his  sword. 

"  Oh,  my  hens  !  Catch  my  hens,  my  Lord,  my  Knight ! " 
cried  the  liberated  egg-vender,  as  her  poultry  ran  away 
with  a  rapidity  suggestive  of  the  unpleasant  bondage 
from  which  they  had  been  freed. 

"  Mount  your  charger  !  "  commanded  the  lame  knight. 

Ami  obeyed  ;  and  as  they  silently  rode  toward  Paris, 
even  Francesco  laughed  when  Ami  plucked  an  ordinary 
chicken-feather  from  his  spur,  and  said,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  Nouvisset, — 

"  This  feather  would  make  a  fine  plume  for  a  knight. 
Knighthood  seeks  the  weakest,  not  the  strongest." 

As  they  journeyed  along,  Nouvisset  rehearsed  to  them 
the  meaning  and  value  of  the  various  exercises  he  had 
given  them.  He  did  not  belie  his  pride  in  these  his 
companions,  as  he  spoke  of  the  fact  that  they  had  not 


WITCHES  AND  KNIGHTS.  119 

been  compelled  to  serve  a  seignorial  household,  and  that 
this  private  school  of  chivalry  was  not  inferior.  They 
were  quite  able  to  dictate  etiquette  in  any  master's  court. 
Their  manners  he  knew  to  be  as  refined  as  their  bodies 
were  agile  and  strong.  Energetic,  bold,  versatile,  they 
were  also  scholarly  and  pure.  Everything,  save  Ami's 
one  desperate  passion,  had  been  conquered  as  easily  as 
the  lame  knight  broke  a  charger.  Faithful  were  they  to 
duty,  as  sentries  or  gentlemen.  The  eye  of  Ami  was  es- 
pecially quick,  and  its  vision  comprehensive.  No  master 
on  a  field  of  conflict  need  ever  wait  too  long  for  his 
valiant  assistance.  True,  they  had  not  stopped  in  the 
intermediate  rank.  Neither  had  either  of  them  been 
pursuivant- at- arms.  But  distinguished  knights  had  prac- 
tised before  them ;  they  had  attended  loftily  descended 
ladies,  who  had  visited  Chilly,  and  they  had  visited  other 
lands  in  books. 

Even  now  they  expected  to  be  honored  in  the  cere- 
mony by  Bayard  himself,  and  to  visit  other  countries 
with  the  king  or  with  Admiral  Andrea  Doria.  Scarfs 
embroidered  by  Marguerite,  perfumes  from  Genoa  and 
Naples,  spotless  garments  selected  by  Louise  of  Savoy, 
awaited  them.  They  grew  impatient  as  they  talked 
together. 

Three  nights  constituted  their  prayerful  vigil  in  the 
chapel  of  the  king,  who  graciously  received  them  with 
the  Prince  Francis.  Masses  were  at  length  said  for 
them,  as  on  bended  knees  they  worshipped,  each  hav- 
ing his  sword  fastened  to  his  neck  preparatory  to  the 
moment  when  it  should  be  girded  to  his  side.  At  a 
dramatic  instant  Louise  of  Savoy,  whom  he  hated, 
approached  Ami,  who  however  honored  every  woman ; 
and  the  duke's  mother  handed  him  his  helmet  and 
spurs. 

She  repeated  the  words  :  "  These  two  spurs  of  gold  are 
to  compel  your  horse  onward.  Emulate  his  eagerness, 


120 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 


and  imitate  his  docility.     Obey  the  Lord,  as  the  charger 
obeys  you." 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  words  Chevalier  Bayard,  sans 
pcur  tt  sans  reprochf,  clad  in  gorgeous  armor,  smote  him 
with  the  sword.  The  accolade  was  soon  in  his  hands. 
Lance  and  shield  were  presented  ;  and  Ami  Perrin 
walked  forth  to  mount  his  charger  —  a  knight. 


CHAPTER   X. 

A    YOUNG    SCHOLAR    AND   A   YOUNG    KING. 
"  Nutrisco  et  Extinguo." 

JANUARY  ist  had  come.  The  device  of  the  salaman- 
der in  the  fire,  and  the  baleful  motto  printed  at  the 
head  of  this  chapter  had  taken  their  places  in  the  armo- 
rial annals  of  France. 

"  Frenchmen,  we  declare  unto  you  the  most  fatal 
news  you  ever  heard.  The  good  King  Louis,  the  father 
of  his  people,  is  dead  !  Pray  to  God  for  the  repose  of 
his  soul  !  "  Thus  cried  the  watchmen  of  Paris. 

"  My  son  is  king  !  What  a  recompense  for  all  the  trials 
and  adversities  of  my  youth  ! "  Thus  exclaimed,  with 
transports  of  joy,  Louise  of  Savoy. 

Ami  was  now  with  Nouvisset  and  Francesco  at  the 
capital.  He  heard  both  remarks. 

"  This  is  a  strange  land,"  said  he,  with  deliberate 
thoughtfulness ;  and  checking  himself,  he  added,  "  But 
I  love  my  king  and  friend." 

"  I  also  loved  his  Majesty  Louis  XII.,"  solemnly  re- 
plied his  instructor. 

"  That  no  one  can  doubt !  "  and  Ami  asked  in  a 
breath,  "  Should  love  for  the  dead  keep  back  devotion 
to  the  living*"  Then  he  said  with  pathos,  "I  had  a 


122  MOM  AND  KNIGHT. 

father  whom  I  loved  ;  and  he  taught  me  to  love  a  cause 
also." 

Nouvisset  would  have  given  worlds  to  tell  him  that 
neither  his  father  nor  his  father's  cause  was  dead ;  but 
Francis  was  now  King  of  France. 

One  thing  in  the  rush  of  emotions  and  ideas  he  would 
tell  him  :'  "  The  King  Louis  XII.  was  good,  and  often 
It  was  his  Majesty  —  whose  coffin  will  lie  by 
the  side  of  that  of  Anne  of  Brittany,  his  true  spouse  — 
who  said  of  the  new  king —  Long  live  the  king!  — 
Ami 

"  He  did  not  say,  '  Long  live  the  king ! '  I  cannot 
believe  it." 

"  No  !  "  answered  the  embarrassed  Nouvisset,  "  /  said 
it,  — '  I^ong  live  the  king  ! ' ' 

••  r.ut  what  of  Ixniis  XII.?" 

••  He  said,  'Francis,  I  am  living!  I  consign  our  sub- 
jects to  your  care.'  " 

Ami  was  a  little  surprised  that  Nouvisset  should  have 
seemed  at  all  hesitant  about  repeating  such  affectionate 
sentences  as  these.  Nomi»et  was  relieved  that  he  had 
succeeded  in  keeping  back  what  might  have  made  him 
seem  untrue  to  the  new  king.  But  what  the  lame  knight 
really  meant  to  say  was  that  Louis  XII.  once  remarked, 
quite  truthfully  as  it  appeared  to  him,  "  We  are  laboring 
in  vain  :  this  big  boy  will  spoil  everything  for  us." 

The  young  knight  straightened  himself,  and  simply  ut- 
tered these  words  :  "  I  am  the  loyal  subject  of  Francis  I., 
King  of  France,  and  —  " 

"And  your  own  conscience,"  interrupted  the  lame 
soldier. 

Ami  was  silent  and  thoughtful. 

Nouvisset  knew  at  this  hour  what  a  conscience  might 
mean  to  a  soul  loyally  devoted  to  the  new  king.  Every 
touch  from  Plato  and  Aristotle  which  had  been  transmit- 
ted through  the  words  of  his  proud  and  wise  instructor, 


A    YOUNG  SCHOLAR  AND  A    YOUNG  KING       123 

had  emphasized  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  moral 
power  in  Ami.  Every  energy  which  had  moulded  and 
tempered  the  will  of  Francis  I.  had  tended  to  make  him 
scornful  of  these  high  behests. 

Supremely  devoted  to  him  in  passionate  love,  invested 
with  a  dim  consciousness  that  his  own  sacred  place  in 
God's  world  was  by  the  side  of  the  gracious  Due  de  Va- 
lois,  who  had  now  become  sovereign,  Ami's  mind  was 
not  so  dazzled  by  the  glitter  of  royalty,  nor  was  his  rea- 
son so  enslaved  by  his  ambition  to  excel,  as  a  courtly 
knight  and  scholar,  that  he  did  not  feel  the  baneful  influ- 
ence upon  the  new  king's  arrogant  and  susceptible  spirit, 
exercised  through  years  of  association  with  falsity,  in- 
trigue, and  crime.  He  was  reasonably  charitable. 

Perhaps  the  early  recognition  of  the  character  of  the 
duke's  environment  would  keep  Ami  patient  when  others 
grew  resentful.  It  would  help  him  to  cling  to  the  king 
when  even  Marguerite,  his  brilliant  sister,  who  always 
seemed  to  have  had  at  least  the  amateur's  love  for  high 
character  and  good  morals,  would  surrender  to  a  nature 
which  seemed  certain  to  love  and  do  the  wrong. 

In  a  burst  of  charitable  loyalty  to  his  new  sovereign, 
Nouvisset  begged  Ami  never  to  yield  his  conviction  of 
the  right,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  expect  a  man  with 
such  culture  as  was  that  of  Francis  I.  to  adopt  a 
theory  of  right  and  wrong  such  as  Ami  himself  had  in- 
breathed and  assimilated  in  the  mountains  with  puritanical 
Waldensians. 

"  You  are  to  pass  from  my  care  into  the  task  of  caring 
for  one  whom  you  love." 

"  He  has  cared  for  me,"  said  Ami,  a  little  weary  of 
Nouvisset's  implied  criticism  of  the  character  of  the 
young  sovereign. 

"  What  said  Socrates  ?  '  You  can  bury  me  if  you  catch 
me  !  '  He  knew  that  the  '  I '  or  '  me '  is  the  soul,  Ami. 
When  did  Francis  care  for  your  sou!?" 


124  MONK'  AND  KXIGHT. 

"  When  he  loved  me,"  was  the  intense  reply. 

Nouvisset  knew  that  even  the  philosophy  which  he 
saw  Ami  had  believed,  would  have  no  chance  just  then 
against  such  an  all-absorbing  love.  He  only  trembled 
when  he  thought  how  jealous  Ami  would  certainly  be- 
come if  the  king  should  some  day  fall  in  love  with  some 
one  else  and  cease  to  think  of  him.  He  thought  also 
how  difficult  it  would  be  for  Ami,  with  the  freedom  which 
was  exercised  by  loving  and  beloved  ones  in  France,  to 
have  a  love  affair  of  his  own.  He  dreaded  the  invasion 
which  jealousy  might  make  upon  his  bright  future. 

On  these  points,  however,  he  said  nothing,  but  con- 
tinued to  moralize  in  this  way :  "  You  must  be  a  light 
of  heaven  in  a  dark  vale  of  earth.  The  king  has  had  an 
unfortunate  education  in  morals." 

"  He  is  a  child  of  the  Holy  Church,"  said  Ami. 
"  Bishops  and  Popes  will  be  his  friends." 

Nouvisset  was  not  at  all  astonished  that  so  soon  the  charm 
of  the  Church  had  bewildered  the  brain  of  the  orphan. 
It  had  come  at  last.  Nuu\i»ct  had  resolved  upon  his 
course.  He  would  not  disturb  the  illusion.  He  could 
wait.  By  and  by  the  seeds  in  Ami's  life  and  thought 
would  sprout ;  and  the  awful  weight  would  lift  above 
them,  then  totter,  then  fall. 

'•  The  king  has  known  nothing  but  ambition,  supersti- 
tion, and  greed.  He  has  a  great  heart  and  a  clear  head, 
but  his  culture  has  enfeebled  his  will  and  moral  sense. 
Who  loves  Louise  of  Savoy?" 

"  Yet  any  true  knight  will  honor  her  name,"  was  the 
instant  reply  of  her  former  page. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  lame  knight,  a  little  surprised  that 
while  Ami  had  so  readily  comprehended  the  secret  of 
knighthood,  he  would  not  now  acknowledge  the  com- 
mand of  the  truer  knighthood  whose  day  seemed  just 
before  their  feet.  "  Ah,  yes  !  I  am  proud  of  that  an- 
swer, and  I  am  glad  that  you  have  made  it;  but  you 


A    YOUNG  SCHOLAR  AND  A    YOUNG  KING.     12$ 

admire  her  not.  Who  can  admire  her?  She  rejoiced 
that  he  who  dressed  the  wounds  of  Chevalier  Bayard's 
horse  at  Ravenna  had  left  a  dying  soldier  before  the 
tent.  No  true  knight  can  love  one  who  adores  such 
neglect.  She  has  made  for  the  throne  of  Francis  only 
a  spoiled  boy." 

Nouvisset  had  calculated  not  unwisely  upon  Ami's 
reverence  for  facts,  when  his  jealousy  did  not  consume 
them. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Ami,  his  whole  temper  hav- 
ing changed  suddenly.  "  what  Madame  d'Angouleme 
asked  me  to  record  in  her  journal  for  the  day  on 
which  her  son  —  and  I  love  him  !  —  escaped  the  run- 
away horse?" 

Ami  repeated  with  a  smile  that  well  known  page  of 
Louise's  diary.  Historians  quote  it  as  follows :  "  The 
25th  of  January,  1501,  Feast  of  the  conversion  of  Saint 
Paul.  At  two  o'clock  p.  M.  my  son's  horse  ran  away  with 
my  King,  my  Lord,  my  Caesar,  -right  across  the  fields 
near  Amboise." 

"  No  Greek  mother  ever  made  a  Spartan  soldier  with 
such  senseless  vaporings,"  said  the  aged  son  of  Hellas. 
"  Flattery  is  not  so  fatal  as  falsity,  however.  The  king's 
teachers  have  been  false." 

"  But  was  not  Artus  Gouffier,  Sire  de  Boisy,  a  true 
knight?" 

"  True  knighthood  for  times  like  these,"  said  the  wise 
Nouvisset,  testily,  "  I  have  often  taught  you  to  believe, 
has  more  serious  studies  than  even  our  knightly  Chevalier 
Bayard  attempts.  We  are  at  the  opening  of  a  mighty 
epoch.  The  young  king  knows  the  use  of  arms,  but  not 
the  use  of  ideas.  He  has  been  with  men  who  blaspheme 
and  stake  their  souls  on  a  throw  of  dice.  They  have 
taught  him  that  the  lower  orders,  such  as  you  saw  at 
Chilly,  have  no  rights ;  but  the  true  king  will  not  bully 
the  people.  Ami,  I  determined  to  educate  you,  if  I 


126  .MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

might,  amid  the  classes  of  which  the  court  of  France  is 
ignorant.  Gouffier  of  Portou  knew  not  the  task  of  gov- 
ernment which  lies  before  the  duke.  He  could  fit  our 
sovereign  to  reign  at  a  banquet  or  at  a  tournament,  or  to 
talk  for  a  brief  time  as  if  he  really  possessed  learning." 

"  T  were  well  if  Francis  had  the  learning  of  his  lovely 
sister,"  remarked  Ami,  a  little  puzzled  to  know  what 
Nouvisset  thought  of  a  woman  whom  he  had  then  dared 
to  call  to't/y. 

"  'T  were  better  if  he  had  been  left  undemoralized  by 
her  worship  of  him." 

"  Yes,  truly,"  said  the  youth,  his  cheek  aglow,  utterly 
unconscious  of  the  flame  of  jealousy  which  then  burned 
within  him. 

The  knight  was  pleased  at  the  discovery  which  was 
made.  He  had  trembled  for  the  fate  of  these  two  sus- 
ceptible hearts,  as  Ami  and  Marguerite  d'Angouleme  had 
sat  together  poring  over  a  manuscript  or  talking  of  the 
Trojan  War.  Even  Louise  of  Savoy  had  been  anxious. 
The  old  knight's  difficulties  entirely  cleared  away  when 
he  comprehended  the  fact  that  Ami  had  already  become 
envious  of  her  rivalry  of  love,  perhaps  of  influence. 

Nouvisset  wanted  to  say  something  about  a  character 
so  inconsistent  as  was  hers,  —  a  soul  addicted  even  then 
to  writing  religious  hymns  and  helping  a  dissolute  brother 
out  of  the  difficulties  consequent  upon  his  evil  ways. 
But  he  had  resolved  not  to  touch  any  of  that  multitude 
of  fasting  saints  and  mitred  sinners,  or  even  Marguerite 
d'Angouleme,  of  whom  Ami  was  both  so  fond  and  so 
jealous. 

Nouvisset's  talk  rambled  on,  as  the  spirits  of  Ami,  who 
had  begun  a  little  to  enjoy  the  wild  optimism  which 
ruled  amidst  the  carousals,  turmoils,  and  indifference  of 
that  heyday  time  sensibly  cooled,  bringing  upon  his  soul 
again  the  sense  of  the  imperious  importance  of  every 
life,  even  that  of  his  own,  —  a  consciousness  such  as  he 


A    YOUNG  SCHOLAR  AND  A    YOUNG  KING.      \2J 

dimly  remembered  possessed  the  soul  of  his  father.  In 
fancy  the  youth  once  more  stood  by  his  father's  side,  and 
heard  his  deep,  noble  words.  He  felt  the  contrast  more 
vividly  than  before,  and  began  to  wonder  how  Francis  I. 
should  ever  be  able  to  rule  France.  The  lights  were 
dim;  and  silently,  as  the  lame  knight  fell  asleep,  the 
youth  sitting  near  pondered. 

A  youth  at  that  hour  amid  those  surroundings  could 
not  have  felt  the  significance  of  the  weakness  of  that 
handsome  young  monarch,  Francis  I.,  as  we,  looking 
back  upon  the  young  Reformation  and  the  aged  Renais- 
sance, feel  it  to-day.  To-day's  student  of  principles  and 
progress  cannot  help  but  pity  the  shade  of  the  king,  as  in 
the  Louvre  he  beholds  that  armor  made  for  a  man  of 
six  feet  rusting  beneath  the  memory  of  one  whose  great- 
est failures  grew  out  of  a  dominance  of  physical  over 
spiritual  powers. 

The  governance  of  Artus  Gouffier  had  so  influenced 
Francis  that  he  was  happier  at  the  recognition  of  his 
skill  when,  having  found  the  ferocious  boar  which  he  had 
put  in  the  courtyard  of  Amboise  entering  the  living- 
apartments  of  the  castle,  he  recklessly  drove  his  sword 
into  the  beast,  and  hurled  him  wounded  to  death  back 
into  the  courtyard,  than  he  could  be  at  the  success  which 
he  achieved  at  discussing  Latin  poetry  with  Marguerite. 
Only  the  influence  of  Ami  made  him  at  times  more  fond 
of  Greek  philosophy  than  of  the  hunt. 

Nouvisset  had  wakened  when  Ami  said  aloud,  "  I  like 
not  Anthony  Duprat." 

"That  is  because  you  love  your  king,"  said  Nouvisset, 
who  knew  Duprat  to  be  a  lover  of  absolute  power  and  a 
venal  servant  of  the  ambitions  of  Louise  of  Savoy.  "  The 
shadow  of  the  President  of  the  Parliament "  -  for  such 
was  Duprat  —  "  may  be  lifted  by  the  Constable  Bourbon, 
who  will  now  perhaps  be  chancellor  of  France.  The 
king's  mother  will  make  her  own  use  of  the  experience 


128  J/C.VA'  A.Y 2)  KX1G11T. 

of  the  premier,  whom  she  fears ;  and  she  will  listen  — 
may  Heaven  grant  it  1  —  to  the  young  constable  whom 
she  loves." 

"  Do  kings  and  kings'  mothers  fall  in  love  with  whom 
they  will  ?  "  asked  the  young  Waldensian,  who  had  not 
yet  been  invited  by  his  sovereign  into  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  any  of  the  numerous  intrigues  of  the  court. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  knight,  "and  they  throw  them 
away  when  they  get  weary  of  them  ;  but  of  that  we  must 
not  talk.  Ami,  I  am  glad  that  you  discern  the  haughty 
offensiveness  of  Anthony  Duprat." 

Nouvissct  knew  that  Ami's  unaroused  jealousy  would 
soon  flame  when  he  beheld  the  submission  into  which 
Duprat  was  leading  the  young  king.  He  was  more  than 
pleased  to  be  made  sure  that  Ami's  prophetic  instinct 
detected  the  peril  of  his  sovereign. 

"  Now,"  said  the  teacher,  with  loving  pride,  as  he 
placed  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  youth  whom 
he  had  instructed,  —  "  now  you  pass  into  the  sen-ice  and 
associations  of  Francis  I.,  King  of  France.  I  was  com- 
manded to  assist  in  your  proper  education.  It  has  been 
a  constant  conflict  against  many  of  the  theories  of  your 
friends  and  mine  ;  and  knowing  what  your  life  is  to  be, 
it  has  been  in  opposition  to  the  tendencies  and  spirit  of 
the  very  court  which  you  are  to  serve." 

"  Perhaps,"  gracefully  remarked  Ami,  "  I  shall  be  no 
less  able  to  perform  knightly  service  to  his  Majesty  be- 
cause I  have  been  thus  led.  Francis  I.  can  do  his  own 
thinking.  My  value  to  him  and  to  the  world  shall  lie 
in  the  fact  that  you  have  taught  me  to  do  mine.  I  am 
grateful." 

"  Oh,  you  brave  but  ignorant  Waldensian  !  "  Nouvisset 
was  about  to  exclaim ;  but  he  had  no  wish  to  curb  the 
genius  which  belongs  to  youth,  or  to  make  another  refer- 
ence to  Ami's  earlier  life.  He  however  proceeded  to  re- 
mark instead :  "  It  is  a  majestic  hour  in  human  history. 


A    YOUNG  SCHOLAR  AND  A    YOUNG  KING.      129 

I  have  tried  to  make  your  intelligence  as  broad  as  your 
coming  duties.  You  have  seen-  the  peasant,  and  you 
have  lived  with  him  at  Chilly.  You  have  known  the 
king,  and  you  are  at  home  in  his  castle.  Be  careful  of 
the  rights  of  both.  Be  sure,  —  I  also  dislike  Duprat ! 
—  be  sure  that  Francis  the  King  of  France  has  no  right 
which  infringes  upon  the  best  hope  of  the  meanest  of 
his  subjects.  I  beg  you  to  forget  not  that  your  own 
father  was  a  cottager  and  a  peasant." 

"But  my  mother,"  said  the  young  knight,  who  was 
already  the  victim  of  a  court  atmosphere,  —  "  my  mother 
was  the  daughter  of  a  count." 

Nouvisset  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  expect  this  sus- 
ceptible and  brilliant  youth  to  escape  entirely  the  passion 
for  noble  ancestry  which  beset  the  veriest  menial  at  the 
castle. 

"Your  mother  told  you  of  knighthood,  and  you  are 
now  able  to  endure  privations,  fatigues,  and  service  as  a 
knight.  You  know  thoroughly  the  use  of  arms,  you  were 
a  page  of  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme  ;  and  Bayard  him- 
self has  given  you  his  heartiest  word  of  praise.  In  games 
and  fencing  you  are  sufficiently  successful ;  and  even 
Robert  La  Marche  is  unequal  to  you  in  the  tilt  and 
tournament." 

It  was  the  hour  when  never  so  true  was  the  saying  of 
the  eloquent  Chartier :  "  The  senseless  notion  of  to-day 
is  that  a  nobleman  has  no  need  to  know  the  alphabet ; 
that  it  is  derogatory  to  a  well  born  man  to  be  able  to  read 
and  write." 

Ami,  like  all  other  men,  was  as  egotistic  as  he  was 
jealous. 

"  I  have  this  day  completed  a  translation  of  some  of 
Plato's  '  Gorgias  '  for  you,  my  best  helper,"  said  he. 

"Yes;  you  have  learned  the  way  to  Athens.  Ami, 
you  must  go  back  to  Greece  with  France  in  your  bosom, 
before  France  can  go  forward  to  her  destiny.  Be  true 
VOL.  i.  —  9 


130  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

enough  to  your  king  to  keep  the  fires  of  thought  burning 
at  his  court.  He  is  generous,  extravagant,  reckless. 
I  dislike  the  presence  of  Duprat.  You,  my  bright 
boy,  you  must  teach  the  king  the  gallantry  of  learning. 
Many  a  lady  for  whom  the  knight  may  rush  into  the 
fray  is  altogether  unworthy  of  such  devotion.  The 
only  mistress  worthy  of  such  blind  and  heroic  love  is 
learning." 

"So,  also,  religion?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

The  Greek  said  nothing.  He  was  anxious  to  avoid  a 
topic  so  delicate,  upon  which  an  honest  and  honorable 
pagan,  such  as  he  was  striving  to  be,  could  not  speak 
without  assaulting  all  that  Ami  was  soon  to  hold  dear. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH. 

The  Church  of  God,  —  that  Church  which  wound 

Around  the  globe  the  Apostles'  zone : 
What  clasped  that  zone,  that  girdle  bound  ? 
The  Roman  unity  alone. 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

IT  was  not  strange  that  the  page  of  Louise  of  Savoy 
and  the  chosen  friend  of  the  young  king  should 
become  so  soon  a  loyal  child  of  the  Holy  Church.  The 
mind  of  Ami  was  of  the  mould,  and  it  was  dominated  by 
those  forces,  which  at  once  rendered  him  easy  of  ap- 
proach and  certain  of  l^eing  profoundly  influenced  by 
that  attractive  power  wielded  by  the  Holy  Catholic 
Church.  If  to-day  often  upon  highly  cultivated  and 
oppositely  educated  men  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
shorn  of  the  splendid  and  arrogant  prerogatives  freely 
conceded  to  her  at  the  opening  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
crippled  by  the  victorious  march  of  learning  over  her 
innumerable  assumptions,  out  of  harmony  with  the  vast 
powers  which  drive  and  guide  the  gathered  significance 
of  modern  life,  antagonistic  to  the  distinctive  intellectual 
and  social  influences  which  make  the  Europe  of  to-day 
more  desirable  than  the  Europe  of  that  bloody  and  igno- 
rant yesterday,  many  of  her  miracles  abolished  by  science, 
more  of  her  saints  impaled  upon  the  sharp  results  of 


132  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

historical  research,  still  more  of  the  heretics  whom  she 
murdered  exalted  by  every  dictate  of  learning  and  man- 
hood,—  if  to-day  upon  these  she  exerts  a  fascination  so 
brilliant,  so  resistless,  as  to  attract  them  to  worship  with 
glad  pride  at  her  shrines,  what  must  have  been  the 
splendor  of  the  charm  upon  such  a  youth  at  such  a  lofty 
moment  in  the  history  of  this  gorgeous  institution? 

It  was  before  a  boy  in  whose  veins  rushed  the  char- 
acteristic currents  of  luxurious  France  and  sunny  Italy 
that  this  majestic  power  was  to  exhibit  and  enforce  her 
persuasions.  Her  right  to  rule  him  was  to  be  voiced 
through  every  eloquent  art,  and  uttered  by  every  com- 
manding tongue.  Kings  and  queens,  with  their  diadems 
and  thrones,  were  to  be  missionaries  unto  him.  Cardi- 
nals and  popes,  with  blazing  apparel  and  fiery  tiaras, 
were,  if  possible,  to  make  this  promising  child  a  proselyte. 
Beautiful  women  amidst  dazzling  gems,  seductive  enthusi- 
asts in  plume  and  helmet,  crowned  rulers  in  imperial 
palaces,  world- famed  scholars  in  halls  of  learning,  were 
to  vie  with  renowned  saints  in  pathetic  poverty,  for  the 
establishment  of  the  Virgin's  shrine  in  the  heart  of  this 
exiled  and  orphaned  Waldensian.  For  years  the  Roman 
hierarchy,  at  the  moment  of  most  superb  rule,  with  all 
the  pageantry  it  might  assume,  with  all  the  holiness  to 
which  it  must  pretend,  in  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
prince  most  promising  to  its  haughty  ambitions,  was  to 
utter  its  curses,  pronounce  its  benedictions,  intone  its 
messages  of  life  and  death,  exhibit  its  sublime  ceremonial 
before  a  homeless  boy,  without  a  solitary  whisper  to 
dissolve  the  stupendous  illusion. 

The  bright,  quick,  nervous,  and  comprehensive  imagi- 
nation of  his  father,  Caspar  Pen-in,  was  his  own ;  and  in 
him  it  had  all  the  restless  vigor  and  fearless  strength 
which  characterize  that  faculty  in  large-brained  chil- 
dren. Ami  possessed  mental  energy  and  grasp  ;  and  the 
imagination  of  the  boy  was  conscious  of  no  limitations 


THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH.  133 

in  its  horizon-line,  nor  did  it  conceive  of  a  star  to  which 
it  might  not  fly.  His  life  was  full  of  pictures,  thrown  off 
by  the  tireless  operation  of  this  artist-power ;  and  ever 
was  it  searching  height  and  depth  for  some  new  or  more 
entrancing  vision.  Symbolic  representations  of  ideas 
crowded  upon  his  eager  soul ;  images  of  abstract  truths 
made  his  mind  a  fascinating  picture-gallery. 

In  youth  imagination  not  only  dreams  her  fairest 
dreams,  but,  often  weary  of  dreaming,  it  is  the  imagina- 
tion of  youth  alone  which  seeks  for  the  largest  ministry 
of  noble  symbols. 

The  Holy  Catholic  Church  held,  at  that  hour,  the 
loftiest  achievements  of  imagination  in  her  jewelled  hand. 
That  institution  alone,  at  that  moment,  called  upon  every 
energy  of  such  a  boy's  imagination.  If  he  believed  her 
legends,  his  imagination  used  its  wildest  freedom.  If  he 
accepted  her  solemn  and  consecrated  story,  his  imagina- 
tion must  dominate  his  reason.  If  he  allied  his  hope 
with  her  promised  destiny,  his  imagination  had  pre- 
empted the  realm  of  the  entire  future.  From  the  lowest 
hell  peopled  with  blackest  devils,  to  the  highest  heaven 
crowded  with  angels  and  resonant  with  saintly  songs; 
from  the  farthest  past  with  its  thrilling  legend  to  the 
remotest  future  with  its  grandest  triumph  for  the  Church, 
—  it  was  an  unapproachable  and  unimpeded  march  for 
this  faculty  divine. 

With  the  very  beginnings  of  Catholic  worship,  the 
imagination  was  called  to  the  heroic  task  of  sympathy 
with  pictures  of  sin  and  of  salvation  which  made  the 
world  alive  with  presences.  In  the  waters  of  baptism 
imagination  was  asked  to  insert  the  power  of  regenera- 
tion. In  the  Holy  Eucharist  the  imagination  must 
detect  renewing  grace  ;  and  despite  the  lapse  of  centuries, 
it  was  expected  to  taste  the  very  blood  and  flesh  of 
Incarnate  God.  In  the  sacrament  of  penance  the 
imagination  must  see  sins  forgiven.  When  some  human 


134  MONK  AND  KNIGHT 

being  by  his  side  entered  holy  orders,  the  imagination 
must  discern  the  replenishing  of  a  soul  by  omnipotence 
and  when  death  came,  the  imagination  was  ex- 
pected to  observe  in  the  Extreme  Unction,  on  this  side 
the  grave,  the  consummation  of  this  gracious  process; 
and  beyond  the  grave  it  was  to  send  its  prayers  to 
an  imagined  world,  amid  whose  lights  and  shadows  the 
lost  friends  wander,  above  them  all  the  Mother  of  God 
beseeching  her  Son  to  save.  No  institution  or  power  of 
earth  ever  so  honored  and  so  bewitched  the  imagination 
as  has  the  Holy  Catholic  Church. 

Afl  with  a  king  and  a  knight  he  entered  the  cathedral, 
his  imagination  met  in  passionate  admiration  the  loftier 
and  trained  imagination  of  illustrious  architects.  In  their 
souls,  under  the  inspiration  or  command  of  the  Church, 
sprang  the  innumerable  arches,  the  stately  columns,  the 
solemn  vaults  which  half  revealed  and  half  conceaied 
infinity.  Human  hope  had  arisen  and  become  incarnate 
in  the  vast  cathedral.  Human  aspiration  had  shot  up- 
ward, with  a  wild  sublimity  which  fascinated  the  youth, 
in  spires  lost  in  the  heavens.  Far  on  the  summits  of  the 
swelling  domes,  which  amid  the  purpling  clouds  and 
azure  distances  rivalled  the  solid  grandeur  of  the  rich 
blue  hills,  as  they  lifted  themselves  above  the  roar  of 
human  passions,  troubles,  cares,  and  sorrows,  stood  clear 
the  all-victorious  cross,  solitary  in  unvexed  brilliance, 
glowing  with  triumphant  fire. 

ry  sacred  place  was  either  glorious  with  rags  and 
relics,  which  latter  were  the  emblems  of  heroic  poverty, 
or  splendid  with  the  testimonies  of  genius  and  gorgeous 
with  the  tributes  of  power.  The  finest  genius  of  earth 
had  studded  the  long  lines  of  vast  interiors.  Alabaster 
and  gold  had  yielded  themselves  to  the  artistic  energy 
which  worshipped  as  it  toiled.  Peasant  and  prince  had 
piled  upon  the  dazzling  altars  their  devotions  and  their 
rubies.  Stately  processions,  with  gleaming  armor  and  in 


THE   HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH.  135 

gayest  color,  even  then  walked  solemnly  beneath  the 
lofty  arches.  Barefooted  bishops  carried  blazing  cruci- 
fixes ;  and  undefeated  soldiers  bore  the  white  mantle  of 
the  Virgin,  under  the  gigantic  cupolas.  Nave  and  tran- 
sept met  in  fondest  intersection  above  the  uncovered 
heads  of  weeping  kings  and  angry  popes.  Carrara  mar- 
bles, touched  and  moulded  by  the  most  exquisite  art, 
•bas-reliefs,  and  symbolic  sculptures  surrounded  pulpits 
resting  on  carven  apostles  and  martyrs ;  and  within 
their  holy  precincts  stood  the  vicars  of  omnipotent 
Jehovah. 

Without  this  magnificence,  enclosing  it  like  an  impreg- 
nable fortress,  huge  walls,  created  of  blocks  from  the 
everlasting  hills,  rose  grandly  by  the  side  of  the  pauper's 
grave  and  the  king's  castle.  Adorned  with  facades  whose 
bold  and  beautiful  outlines  testified  to  the  pride  and 
piety  of  ages ;  decorated  gables  and  pinnacles  out  of  whose 
recesses  looked  benignantly  saints  and  prophets ;  finials 
and.  canopies  under  whose  pointed  arches  faith  had 
placed  her  symbols ;  shafts,  capitals,  and  cornices  which 
rehearsed  the  sacred  history  and  ardent  prophecies  of  seer 
and  psalmist,  —  the  whole  noble  mass  seemed  never  so 
much  "  frozen  music  "  as  when  the  thunders  of  melody 
were  rolling  through  its  capacious  aisles  and  echoing 
from  arch  to  arch  in  the  groined  and  fretted  roof,  while 
between  the  noisy  world  without  and  the  untroubled 
world  within,  through  countless  windows,  the  sun  poured 
his  richest  splendors,  flooding  the  jewelled  mitre  and  the 
peasants'  rags  with  myriad  glories  which  surged  like 
silent  waves  midst  clouds  of  incense,  against  the  Virgin's 
shrine. 

For  years,  without  a  break,  the  vision  of  such  triumphs 
of  imagination  was  to  work  upon  a  lad  whose  best  mem- 
ory held  the  picture  of  a  little  nook  in  the  midst  of  the 
mountains,  where  his  father  gathered  together  the  igno- 
rant but  honest  herdsmen  and  their  families  and  some- 


136  MOM  AXD  AYr/(;//r. 

times  preached  to  them  in  simple  words,  where  poverty 
was  not  so  poor  as  to  be  ragged  and  monkish,  where 
religion  was  so  barren  of  ceremonial  as  to  seem  mean 
and  insignificant. 

Nouvisset  and  he  had  often  stood  together  and  stud- 
ied the  southern  and  western  fronts  of  Notre  Dame. 
Then  the  old  man  would  tell  him  of  the  streams  of  time 
which  had  borne  down  upon  their  current  the  ideals, 
hopes,  tendencies,  which  were  embodied  in  that  archi- 
tecture, and  of  the  wreckage  enclosed  within  those 
walls. 

"  See,"  said  Nouvisset,  —  "  see  how  such  a  cathedral 
is  the  only  honest  historian  !  There  are  energies  from 
great  times  and  from  many  lands  toiling  in  those  work- 
men. The  past  is  incarnate  here  in  the  various  styles 
of  architecture.  There  is  the  Roman ;  but  it  took  a 
hundred  currents  from  far  out  at  sea  to  make  it.  Every 
surge  of  the  waters  in  the  sea  of  thought  or  feeling 
has  modified  it.  Above  the  Roman,  the  tale  is  told  of 
another  more  aspiring  and  more  worshipping  era  in  the 
life  of  men.  Away  yonder,  near  the  top  of  the  picture, 
the  struggling  harmonies  of  the  Parthenon  and  the  Forum 
are  visible.  Do  you  see  it?" 

Ami  was  conscious  that  Greece  and  Rome,  and  the 
France  which  reached  backward  to  both  these  nations, 
towered  before  him  toward  heaven.  Various  and  widely 
separated  centuries  had  told  the  story  of  their  deepest 
life  in  that  vast  fane. 

"  If  I  were  not  so  old,"  said  the  teacher,  "  I  would 
make  these  churches  tell  their  story.  It  would  be  an 
honest  history  which  they  would  relate.  The  men  who 
made  them  did  not  mean  to  write  history,  and  so  they  did 
not  lie.  The  true  story  of  man's  life  lies  in  his  temples, 
not  in  the  parchment  records  about  battles  and  sover- 
eigns, not  in  the  mouths  of  priests,  but  in  the  way  they 
have  piled  stones  upon  one  another.  Ami,  I  hope  yon 


THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH.  137 

will  do  that.  But  I  am  sure  you  cannot  do  it  and  be 
a  popular  man  at  court.  Serious  things  are  at  a  dis- 
count. The  court  is  only  playing  with  learning,  amus- 
ing itself  with  art;  and  now  it  is  a  little  worried  by 
Lefevre,  Louis  de  Berquin,  and  others  of  the  reform- 
ing, crowd.  It  may  find  them  a  greater  annoyance  by 
and  by." 

Ami  wandered,  by  permission  of  the  king  and  priests, 
into  the  cathedral  itself.  It  chanced  to  be  the  hour 
when  the  long  and  elaborate  services  incident  to  the 
visit  of  the  Bishop  of  Paris  were  at  their  highest  point 
of  magnificence.  He  sat  where  he  beheld  pictures 
and  heard  harmonies;  and  as  he  listened  and  saw, 
he  wished,  in  a  child's  dim  way,  that  little  Alke  could 
have  known  of  these ;  and  above  all,  that  his  poor 
slain  father  had  seen  and  heard  what  majestic  powers 
were  there. 

"  Certainly,"  his  thought  was,  "  he  did  not  know  how 
beautiful  it  all  is,  or  how  great.  If  he  had  known  of  it 
all,  he  would  never  have  been  a  heretic." 

As  the  cardinal,  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  four 
lords,  came  in  with  the  long  procession  of  knights  and 
auditors,  he  remembered  indistinctly  but  forcefully  his 
father's  unadorned  presence  or  that  of  the  guide ;  as 
he  talked  without  authority  about  holy  things  to  the 
mountaineers.  How  poor  and  worn  it  all  seemed  now, 
as  the  brilliant  robe  of  the  cardinal  blazed  in  a  new 
light ! 

Ami  could  not  forget  one  of  those  frosty  evenings  in 
the  cavern,  and  the  haste  in  cutting  short  the  worship 
when  the  herdsmen  and  their  families  huddled  together 
to  sing  and  pray.  Art  had  not  touched  those  rocks  on 
which  they  sat,  moulding  them  into  friezes  or  transform- 
ing them  into  capitals. 

As  he  had  looked  about  the  proud  cathedral  for  an 
hour  before  entering,  he  had  gained  an  impression  of  its 


138  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

imposing  significance.  He  had  heard  that  it  stood  on 
the  spot  to  which  once  conquering  Romans  had  been 
gathered  in  a  pagan  shrine.  Within  those  walls  Hera- 
clius  had  sounded  the  trumpet-call  of  the  crusade  more 
than  three  centuries  before.  That  nave  had  been  lifted 
skyward  in  the  reign  of  Philip  Augustus.  From  the  hand 
of  the  founder  of  the  porch  which  he  had  just  left,  yea, 
in  this  very  temple,  Saint  Louis  had  taken  his  staff  and 
scarf.  -Every  building  in  surrounding  spaces  seemed  to 
bow  in  reverence  before  this  consecrated  pile.  The 
Hotel  of  God  and  the  Palace  of  Justice  existed,  like  the 
Church  of  St.  Stephen  the  Martyr,  only  to  be  razed  to 
the  ground,  whenever  the  larger  effect  of  the  great^  edi- 
fice might  demand  it. 

The  arches  crowded  with  the  statues  of  kings,  the 
figures  of  the  ancestors  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  the  vast 
windows  filled  with  scenic  grandeur,  were  forgotten  as  in 
solemn  procession  came  pouring  in  the  vicars  and  can- 
ons, choristers  and  officers,  and  the  one  hundred  and 
twenty  chaplains  of  the  spiritual  lord  of  Paris.  And 
just  then  the  whole  cathedral  trembled  with  the  mighty 
harmonies  which  a  master-hand  found  in  the  great  organ, 
ni  had  listened  to  the  love-songs  and  pious  hymns 
which  the  king  had  written,  and  which  he  would  often 
sing  accompanied  with  the  lute,  he  had  often  thought 
more  favorably  of  the  crusading  hymns  and  simple  sacred 
lays  which  had  come  to  the  ears  of  his  childhood.  His 
soul  had  also  been  ravished  with  chants,  rendered  amidst 
other  gorgeous  ceremonies  by  a  cohort  of  musicians  and 
choristers.  Masses  of  the  Gregorian  order  he  had  heard, 
rivalling  the  secular  songs  which  commemorated  battle- 
fields and  had  reorganized  armies.  The  choir  which 
sang  them  was  one  of  the  richest  gifts  which  passed 
from  Louis  XII.  to  Francis  I.  In  1515  Milan  heard  its 
notes,  while  Leo  X.  was  charmed.  Melodies  low  and 
sweet,  psalms  echoing  with  the  thunder  of  battle  or  the 


THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH.  139 

throb  of  a  shepherd's  heart,  Te  Deums  which  wove 
their  fine  harmonies  of  the  most  opulent  tones,  Glo- 
rias which  breathed  of  heaven,  had  swept  Ami  into  an 
ecstasy  of  devotion.  The  masters,  Ambrose,  Gregory, 
Fortunatus,  Saint  Hilary,  and  Robert  II.  of  France,  Peter 
Damian,  Saint  Bernard,  and  Thomas  a  Kempis,  had  each 
of  them  allied  the  tenderest  words  or  the  sweetest 
chords  with  the  genius  of  the  brilliant  chorister  Guillaume 
Guinaud,  and  the  king's  chapel-master,  Claude  de  Ser- 
misy,  to  uplift  and  lead  the  worship.  But  never  before 
had  the  soul  of  the  boy  been  so  moved  by  the  might  of 
sweet  sounds.  Whispers  of  angels  seemed  to  linger  and 
float  upon  the  thunderous  waves  of  harmony,  as  the 
great  building  quivered  in  their  movement.  It  ap- 
peared impossible  that  his  father  ever  could  have  heard 
such  rich  melodies.  The  Holy  Church  alone  seemed 
able  to  wed  such  chords,  and  possess  such  pledges  of 
heaven. 

These  harmonies  seemed  to  vie  with  those  which  had 
been  caught  by  artists  of  equal  power,  and  fastened  in 
the  great  windows  of  this  august  fane.  The  eye  became 
an  avenue  through  which  the  Church  drove  its  arguments 
of  heavenly  beauty  and  superb  dominion ;  and  yet  he 
knew  not  that  he  was  then  the  beholder  of  but  one  mo- 
ment's splendor  in  one  building,  among  many  throughout 
all  Europe,  whose  windows  had  told,  in  many- colored 
poetry  and  eloquence,  the  story  of  the  Church.  Age 
after  age  this  eloquence  had  gathered  in  opulent  strength 
and  increasing  beauty.  Holy  pensiveness  had  for  centu- 
ries dwelt  under  prismatic  and  harmonious  glory.  Every 
variety  of  tint,  every  excellence  of  position,  every  inspir- 
ing or  pathetic  scene  in  the  life  of  lawgiver,  saint,  psalm- 
ist, prophet,  martyr,  Virgin,  or  Christ,  had  been  put  under 
tribute  to  furnish  with  completeness  this  sacred  pageantry. 
Distinguished  artists  had  labored  with  the  molten  sand ; 
illlustrious  minds  had  shaped  the  fragile  products  ;  patient 


I40 


MO.Y/C  AND  K'XIGHT. 


enthusiasts  had  selected  the  pigments;  great  painters 
had  arranged  the  brittle  pieces  with  an  ingenious  indus- 
try ;  eminent  architects  had  set  the  brilliant  combinations 
in  their  places,  until  the  choir,  apse,  altar,  and  mosaic 
floor  on  which  Europe  worshipped,  appeared  a  sacred 
dream  of  transcendent  radiance. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    HOLY   CATHOLIC    CHURCH. 

For  this, 

The  gospel  and  great  teachers  laid  aside, 
The  decretals,  as  their  stuffed  margins  show, 
Are  the  sole  study.     Pope  and  Cardinal. 
Intent  on  these,  ne'er  journey  but  in  thought 
To  Nazareth,  where  Gabriel  op'd  his  wings. 

DANTE  (Gary's  translation). 

AMI  made  no  wild  plunge  into  the  bosom  of  the 
Church,  because  of  any  desperate  desire  to  es- 
cape the  perils  of  infidelity.  His  personality  was  sim- 
ply weaker  than  the  institution  which  overshadowed  him. 
The  imagination  of  the  boy  was  taken  by  storm.  . 

Not  less  impressive,  however,  to  a  youth  of  this  na- 
ture was  the  impression  which  the  Church,  ancient  and 
catholic,  made  upon  such  as  was  he,  as  he  was  led  by 
so  amiable  an  instructor,  into  the  study  of  history. 

Since  that  hour  when  Ami  sat  at  the  feet  of  Nouvisset, 
the  unreformed  Catholic  Church  has  added  so  many 
dark  and  bloody  pages  to  the  story  of  humanity,  and 
history  has  been  written  with  such  honest  freedom,  that 
we  can  scarcely  appreciate  the  impression  made  upon  his 
mind  as  he  saw  this  ever-young  and  growing  institution 
stretch  the  list  of  her  triumphs  from  the  hour  when, 
having  fought  with  infuriated  beasts,  she  rose  out  of  the 
dust  of  the  Roman  amphitheatre,  to  the  hour  when  his 


142  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

grandfather  and  others  of  the  heretical  Waldensians  fell 
under  the  hands  of  Innocent  VIII. 

As  he  read  of  the  revolutions  which  had  crushed  em- 
pires and  overset  thrones,  he  saw  the  papal  chair  steady 
through  them  all.  He  saw  the  inextinguishable  youth 
of  the  Church  amidst  the  sneers  of  her  foes.  As  Chaucer 
in  England  had  smiled  at  the  Church,  the  Cathedral  of 
Milan  had  begun  to  rise  starward.  While  Poggio  laughed 
and  amused  the  South  of  Europe,  she  was  burning  Lol- 
lards, sending  La  Salle  into  the  wilds  of  America,  and 
commanding  Veronese  and  Fra  Angelico  to  decorate 
her  temples.  Something  resistless  and  grand  lay  in  the 
charm  of  these  gathered  centuries  upon  her  brow.  She 
had  stood,  in  the  person  of  Gregory  IX.,  in  that  hour 
when  the  University  of  Cambridge  was  founded,  and  the 
Cathedral  of  Cologne  was  yet  in  the  mind  of  Conrad. 
Years  before,  when  England  was  rejoicing  over  Magna 
Charta,  she  was  eloquent  in  Saint  Francis,  or  pious  in  the 
person  of  Elizabeth  of  Hungary. 

Did  Worms  Cathedral  begin  to  attract  the  footsteps  of 
a  solitary  and  rebellious  monk?  She  was  there  when, 
five  hundred  years  before,  its  foundations  were  laid.  She 
had  crowned  Charlemagne ;  she  had  conquered  Ma- 
homet ;  she  had  entered  England  with  Saint  Austin ;  she 
had  seen  Romans  come  back  from  Britain ;  she  had 
beheld  Attila  defeated  and  Aurelius  die ;  she  had  bled 
under  Vespasian  ;  she  had  walked  into  Nero's  prisons  un- 
afraid ;  she  had  looked  out,  even  from  them,  backward 
into  the  eternal  past,  feeling  her  relationship  to  the  pur- 
pose of  God,  while  Rome  staggered,  "  drunken  with  the 
blood  of  the  saints,  and  drunken  with  the  blood  of  the 
martyrs  of  Jesus." 

A>  Ami  learned  of  strifes  and  factions,  pillaged  towns 
and  burned  cities,  mobs  and  armies,  crusades  and  dis- 
membered kingdoms,  he  saw  some  Ambrose  unquailing 
in  the  presence  of  a  Theodosius,  Flavius  successfully 


THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH.  143 

begging  for  Antioch,  or  Hildebrand  holding  barefooted 
Henry  IV.  at  his  command  amid  the  snows  of  Canossa. 
From  the  moment  when  Felix  trembled  unto  that  in 
which  Ami  beheld  Louise  of  Savoy  exercised  as  to  the 
opinions  of  the  Pope,  the  Holy  Church  had  preserved 
this  august,  imperative,  and  haughty  dominion.  She 
seemed  the  one  historic  fact,  changeless  and  unchange- 
able. Human  passion  had  builded  fires  at  her  feet  which 
she  had  quenched.  Royal  licentiousness  had  brought 
flagrant  sins  in  her  sight,  and  the  sinner  she  had  ex- 
communicated. Rich  barons  had  oppressed  her  poor, 
until  she  had  punished  their  rapacity.  Goth  and  Hun 
and  Vandal  had  sought  to  destroy  every  glory  of  old 
Rome,  while  she  had  hid  the  powers  of  learning  and  of 
art  in  her  monasteries,  and  erected  a  new  and  spiritual 
Rome  upon  the  ruin. 

She  had  used  all  sorts  of  men,  —  Peter  the  Hermit 
and  Polycarp,  Barnard  and  Augustine,  Alcuin  and  Saint 
Anthony.  Her  line  encircled  the  history  of  human  nature, 
and  her  command  lay  upon  every  heart. 

As  he  dreamed  of  his  fathef  and  that  little  church 
amidst  the  hills,  he  was  perplexed  that  such  a  trifling  and 
infantile  movement  as  that  of  the  Waldensians  should  have 
ever  measured  its  babyhood  with  the  long  motherhood  of 
the  Holy  Church. 

"Could  my  father  have  read  a  page  of  history?" 
thought  he.  "  Is  it  possible  that  he  knew  of  the  councils 
which  are  beacons,  and  the  fathers  which  were  flames 
of  fire,  stretching  from  the  very  opening  into  the  cata- 
combs to  the  day  of  the  Pragmatic  Sanction?  He  was 
not  unlearned.  What  could  have  possessed  his  mind, 
that  he  forgot  the  ever-advancing  tread  of  this  gigantic 
power,  and  solemnly  satisfied  himself  with  the  child's- 
play  of  this  new-born  heresy  !  " 

So  mightily  did  the  awe-inspiring  past,  huge  and  in- 
explicable, fill  the  eye  of  Ami's  soul.  He  was  hot  come 


144  J/  r/T 

to  that  intellectual  manhood  which  perceives  how  often 
ivy-like  fancies  of  ignorance  conceal  the  rough  walls 
within  which  dwell  horrible  tyrannies  ;  nor  had  he  learned 
how  that  ancient  institution  threw  the  shadow  of  its  im- 
agined sacredness  upon  something  far  more  venerable^ 
far  more  sacred,  —  the  soul  of  man. 

Reason  often  seems  late  in  coming  to  the  rescue  of 
true  faith. 

ry  such  superficial  notion  of  what  constitutes  sal- 
vation as  would  belong  to  the  mind  of  a  youth  without  a 
ricnces  with  sin,  was  satisfied  —  is  still  satis- 
fied—  with   the  priest   and   the   absolution.     Had   not 
authority  been  deported  with  his  confessor?     If 
full  su*  had  not  been  made,  surely  tl  nences 

of  purgatory  would  make  heaven  certain.  In  obeying 
the  visible  hierarchy  the  boy  saw  the  power  which  - 
It  taxed  not  those  powers  of  his  soul  to  look  beyond,  — 
powers  which  are  later  in  maturing.  Those  conceptions  of 
sainthood  which  accompany  spiritual  youth,  —  the  lonely 
ascetic  living  his  negative,  self-conscious,  unaggressive 
the  meditative  pietist,  introspective  and  calm,  flee- 
ing from  the  world,  in  quick  retreat  from  the  battle  of 
life  with  its  hopes  and  despair,  its  fascinating  ambitions 
and  its  ennobling  problems,  —  these  were  satisfied  in 
the  roll  of  martyrs,  confessors,  and  heroes  of  the  Holy 
Church. 

As  he  remembered  the  struggling  in  his  father's  pray- 
ers at  the  fireside,  and  the  fervor  with  which  he  fought 
out  the  battle  of  life  in  the  world,  he  thought :  "  Oh,  if 
he  had  known  of  some  monastery  in  which  the  world 
never  came,  or  of  some  priest  whose  assertion  of  pardon 
was  ratified  before  the  throne  of  Heaven,  then  my  father 
could  have  been  the  saint  he  wished  to  be." 

A  present,  living,  growing  teacher,  with  plenitude  of 
power  to  condemn  or  to  forgive,  —  a  teacher  which  gave 
no  invitation  or  command  to  men  to  do  unpleasant,  toil- 


THE  HOLY  CATHOLIC   CHURCH.  145 

some,  bewildering  reasoning,  —  so  quieted  his  mind,  so 
reigned  above  the  rising  tumult  of  debate  in  his  soul, 
that  he  gave  over  to  the  Church  in  fee  simple  his  entire 
spirit. 

"Oh,  if  my  mother,"  said  he,  as  he  thought  of  one 
conversation  which  he  dimly  remembered  to  have  heard 
long  ago,  —  a  conversation  in  which  she  sadly  broke 
back  to  the  old  Church,  and  cried  for  the  Eucharist,  — 
"  oh,  if  my  mother  had  lived,  it  may  be  that  he  who  died 
for  the  new  heresy  had  died  in  peace  in  the  bosom  of 
the  Church  ! " 

Sufficient  truth  the  Church  has  always  held  to  make 
her  better  than  the  world  from  whose  tyranny  men  desire 
to  escape.  With  ease  she  comes  to  the  soul  of  a  peni- 
tent or  to  the  heart  of  a  struggling  saint,  and  advocates 
an  ever-present  grace.  She,  however,  commands  peace 
where  there  is  no  peace.  She  rouses  the  spirit  to  desire 
the  ministries  of  her  peculiar  power;  she  puts  a  swift 
forgiveness  upon  vices,  and  makes  sacred  the  spiritual 
conceit  which  is  its  consequence.  Thus,  as  Ami  was 
swept  on  into  the  atmosphere  of  a  designing  hypocrite, 
amid  the  splendors  of  the  court  of  her  son  Francis  I., 
the  unreformed  Church  caught  the  weaknesses  of  his 
impulsive  youth  and  blessed  them. 

The  warm  currents  of  his  mother's  blood  gave  to  this 
youth  a  large  emotional  life.  The  Church  of  the  six- 
teenth century  dazzled  the  imagination,  and  developed 
while  it  fed  the  emotions  of  men. 

The  music  breathed  those  sounds  which  rolled  through 
.the  chambers  of  the  heart  in  deep  diapason.  Every 
chord  which  uttered  tenderness,  every  note  which 
touched  the  sensibilities,  every  instrument  which  swept 
the  feelings,  every  combination  which  deepened  sorrow 
for  sin,  quickened  a  love  of  goodness,  filled  the  eye 
with  tears  of  gratitude  or  of  remorse,  was  employed  with 
unsurpassed  art  and  incredible  constancy.  The  windows 
VOL.  i. — 10 


146  MOATJC  AND  KNIGHT. 

chronicled  those  scenes  in  which  the  boy  Joseph  had 
been  sold,  the  child  Samuel  was  called  of  God,  the  per- 
secutor Saul  was  beholding  the  Christ,  the  Holy  Saviour 
^onizing  in  death,  the  saintly  Stephen  was  being 
stoned,  or  the  Mother  of  God  was  enthroned  on  high. 

altar  was  one  rich,  vast,  constant  appeal  to  the 
feelings,  —  agitating  them  by  its  pictures,  rousing  them 
by  its  services,  blessing  them  b>  il  significance. 

There  quivered  the  sacred  heart ;  there  bled  the  riven 
side  of  the  Redeemer ;  there  died  in  inconceivable  pain 
the  Son  of  God.  A  single  week  in  the  life  of  a  wor- 
shipper was  sufficient  to  create  an  era  in  the  history  of 
a  soul's  emotional  life.  A  Calvary  —  a  dark,  hideous, 
consecrated  Calvary  —  approached  painfully  by  slow 
progress  in  prayer,  and  with  meditation  upon  the  one 
saddest  scene  in  human  story ;  seven  stations,  each  more 
awful  in  suggestions  of  grief,  leading  at  last  to  a  realistic 
reproduction  in  the  mind  of  the  most  affecting  of  all 
deaths,  —  this  alone  opened  the  floodgates  of  the  soul. 

Not  even  the  worship  was  the  strongest  power  to 
engage  this  boy's  feelings.  Death  had  come  upon  his 
life ;  and  he  often  had  wondered  if  life  might  not  have 
been  less  tragic  if  his  mother  had  been  spared  to  him. 
He  knew  that  there  had  been  moments  when  her  intense 
zeal  for  the  cause  of  the  Waldensians  flagged  a  little ; 
and  once  he  buried  his  face  in  her  lap  when  she  told 
him  not  to  hate  the  statue  of  the  Virgin.  He  could  yet 
feel  her  hand  upon  his  head. 

To  this  boy  the  Holy  Church  came  with  the  realm 
beyond  the  grave,  peopled  and  very  human  in  its  ways. 
Angels  walked  with  the  lost  and  loved.  Prayers  which 
issued  out  of  his  affection  or  his  faith  as  a  witness  to  soli- 
tude and  to  suffering,  reached,  as  he  was  led  to  believe, 
beyond  the  grave,  and  filled  the  lives  of  the  dead  with 
benediction. 

Soon,  very  soon,  the  height  of  his  emotional  life  bore 


THE   HOLY  CATHOLIC  CHURCH. 


a  form,  —  the  form  which  he  adored.  He  was  a  mother- 
less boy.  In  immaculate  splendor,  clad  in  sinless  beauty, 
his  guardian,  his  friend,  Mary  the  Virgin  Mother  of 
God  was  enthroned  in  silence  and  without  ceremony 
upon  the  heart  of  the  orphan.  He  could  not  help 
thinking  that  his  own  mother  looked  like  the  vision 
which  he  beheld  when  he  took  the  sacrament. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

FADING    FACTS   AND   LIVING   DREAMS. 

Glory  and  boast  of  Avalon's  fair  vale, 

How  beautiful  thy  ancient  turrets  rose  I 
Fancy  yet  sees  them  in  the  sunshine  pale 

Gleaming,  or  more  majestic  in  repose, 
When  West  away  the  crimson  landscape  glows, 

Casting  their  shadows  on  the  waters  wide. 
How  sweet  the  sounds  that,  at  still  daylight's  close, 

Come  blended  with  the  airs  of  eventide, 
When  through  the  glimmering  aisle  faint  misereres  died. 

BOWLES 

LET  us  go  back  to  Somersetshire,  to  the  England  of 
monastic  days.  As  in  the  last  hour  of  that  sunny 
afternoon  he  welcomed  Vian  with  rebukes  and  tears, 
when  the  latter  entered  his  apartments  in  Glastonbury 
Abbey,  tired  and  dust-covered  from  his  journey  home- 
ward, Abbot  Richard  Beere,  conservative  and  politician, 
was  sure  that  a  long  and  unwearied  effort  must  be  made 
to  uproot  from  the  rich  soil  of  Vian's  young  mind  the 
seeds  which  two  such  men  as  More  and  Erasmus  had, 
perhaps  unwittingly,  sowed  therein.  He  knew  enough  of 
the  boy's  character  and  breeding  to  abandon  all  attempts 
at  forcing  him  into  credulity,  or  at  flogging  him  into 
hearty  obedience.  He  was  both  sadder  and  more  hope- 
ful when  he  saw  that  Vian  trembled  only  at  his  tears. 
Man  of  the  past  that  he  was,  the  head  of  Glastonbury  felt 


FADING   FACTS  AND  LIVING  DREAMS. 


149 


that  he  must  summon  up  the  entire  force  of  that  past  of 
which  he  was  master,  if  he  should  obtain  for  the  Church 
the  future  which  gleamed  upon  the  brow  of  Vian.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  a  man  holds  the  past  only  as 
he  seizes  the  present,  and  through  that  the  future.  It 
never  concerned  him,  or  his  plans,  that  youth  gives  no 
surer  witness  to  its  own  genius  than  when  it  beats 
its  wings  uneasily  against  institutions  whose  glitter  and 
antiquity  have  bedazzled  the  feeble  eye  of  age. 

"  He  is  not  at  all  impressed  with  the  dignity  of  the 
Church,"  said  the  abbot  one  day,  as  if  forced  by  the 
disappointing  months  to  a  doleful  conclusion. 

The  next  day  he  would  win  him,  and  astonish  him  by 
the  splendor  with  which  a  servant  of  the  Holy  Church  in 
his  position  could  go  fishing. 

But  Vian  looked  upon  the  scene  much  as  did  Fra 
Giovanni,  who,  walking  with  a  brother,  —  the  custom  of 
Glastonbury  compelled  them  to  go  two  and  two,  no  man 
being  companionless  out  of  the  enclosure,  —  and  encoun- 
tering the  magnificent  cavalcade,  said  with  fine  irony, 
"This  cannot  be  a  procession  composed  of  men  who 
have  taken  a  vow  of  perpetual  poverty,  and  who  do  not 
love  the  gaudy  pleasures  of  the  wicked  world.  What 
think  you?" 

The  long  retinue  of  more  than  one  hundred  elegantly 
costumed  monks,  bearing  arms  which  glittered  in  the  fire 
of  that  bright  day,  followed  after  the  abbot,  who  was 
preceded  by  a  solitary  and  muscular  brother  bearing  a 
'huge  shining  crucifix. 

Every  doubt  as  to  the  persons  composing  the  train 
would  have  been  banished,  even  in  a  mind  less  ac- 
quainted with  such  pompous  scenes  than  Fra  Giovanni's, 
by  their  advance. 

"  Ah,"  said  Giovanni,  "  I  shall  have  to  flog  the  abbot 
for  his  pride.  Yet  it  is  all  so  churchly ;  it  is  only  the 
Lord  Abbot,  of  Glastonbury  toiling  alone,  as  you  see, 


150  MO.YA'  AND  K' NIGHT 

through  that  crowd  of  sycophants,  who  have  found  out 
somehow  that  he  is  going  fishing  for  a  perch,  and  who 
kneel  like  menials  for  his  blessing.  Ha  !  he  is  as  nobly 
attired  for  meeting  a  pike,  as  he  will  be  on  his  way  to 
Parliament,  when  he  will  astonish  Harry  himself  with  his 
mitre  and  crosier." 

Yum  had  fled  to  literary  pools,  and  was  casting  for 
living  ideas. 

A>  the  afternoon  wore  away,  and  the  shadows  in  the 
scriptorium  grew  longer,  the  young  man  read  from  the 
Scripture  which  he  was  copying  with  another  novice  of 
the  same  age,  the  story  of  the  disciples  fishing  in  Lake 
Gennesaret.  It  was  boyish  logic,  perhaps,  and  certainly 
quite  evident  heresy,  that  led  him  to  make  certain  re- 
marks to  the  librarian  who  was  the  monk  nearest  to 
Giovanni  in  humor  and  sympathy. 

"Then  Peter  himself  had  no  retinue,  even  when  he 
fished  in  the  lake;  did  he?" 

"  No,  the  Church  was  poor  in  those  da\ 

"  And  yet  that  was  the  Church  of  apostles  and  mar- 
tyrs," said  Vian,  with  a  furtive  glance. 

"  Even  so ;  but  the  Holy  Church  was  poor  then," 
remonstrated  the  librarian,  who  was  humorous  as  he  lost 
ground. 

"And  pure,  also?  "  asked  Vian  ;  "  poor  and  pure  !  " 

"  Even  then  Judas  was  a  disciple." 

"But  Judas,  who  was  not  poor  very  long,  was  not 
made  a  cardinal  or  a  bishop,"  firmly  added  this  son  of  a 
Wycliffite,  as  he  reverted  to  the  scene  of  the  morning 
*  It  appears  to  me  —  I  know  that  I  can  understand  little 
—  but  it  appears  to  me  that  the  Holy  Church  is  not  so 
pure  as  when  she  was  poor.  Why  should  the  abbot  — 
and  he  is  not  even  Peter's  successor  —  why  should  he  be 
guarded  and  wear  costly  garments  ?  The  people  who  fell 
on  their  knees  before  him  as  he  passed,  acted  like  slaves, 
and  they  seem  very  ragged.  Peter  had  no  silver  and 


FADING  FACTS  AND  LIVING  DREAMS.         151 

gold;  yet  he  blessed  people  like  unto  them.  Nobody 
seems  to  want  to  bless  them  now,  except  when  those  who 
bless  are  sure  to  receive  silver  or  gold.  I  know  I  cannot 
understand  it."  And  Vian  went  to  work  again,  copying 
with  firm  and  excellent  hand  a  page  of  vellum  which  lay 
before  him. 

"The  novice  is  a  thinker,"  said  the  monk,  as  he 
found  Giovanni  a  moment  later,  and  related  to  him  the 
conversation. 

Both  of  them  smiled,  when  Giovanni  said  :  "  It  will  be 
the  turn  of  the  thinker  soon.  The  abbot  has  something 
else  on  his  line,  besides  a  hook  in  that  novice.  Poor, 
disappointed  abbot !  He  knows  he  has  failed  to  impress 
Vian  with  the  grandeur  of  the  Church  when  the  Holy 
Church  goes  fishing.  He  will  try  it  again  when  the 
Church  goes  to  Parliament." 

At  length  the  day  which  Giovanni's  remarks  antici- 
pated came.  The  soft  airs  were  floating  like  whispers 
over  the  green  fields,  carrying  within  them  the  silent 
shadows  of  the  white  clouds  above.  The  cavalcade  was 
ready  to  start ;  but  Vian,  who  was  to  ride  at  the  side  of 
the  abbot,  could  not  be  found. 

What  a  night  the  boy  had  endured  !  When  the  morn- 
ing bell  tolled  for  matins,  he  was  on  his  knees  alone, 
praying,  as  he  had  heard  the  Lollards  pray  at  Lutter- 
worth.  Taking  his  seat  in  the  church,  he  sang  with  a 
trembling  and  weary  voice  the  fifteen  Psalms,  tears  run- 
ning down  his  cheeks.  Fra  Giovanni  noticed  his  emo- 
tions, when  Nocturn  came,  and  then  missed  him,  when 
the  chanter  and  choir  returned  from  lauds.  No  one 
thought  the  fishing  excursion  of  the  day  before  to  have 
been  such  an  event  as  to  take  the  sweetest  voice  out  of 
that  choir.  Tierce  and  Morning  Mass  found  him  not ; 
and  he  was  absent  from  the  procession  which  wended  its 
way  to  the  chapter- house. 

The  sub-prior  hastily  discovered   these  facts,  as  he 


152  MO.YA'  .>1.\7)    KXIGl/T. 

sought  to  relieve  the  agitated  mind  of  Abbot  Richard 
Beere.  Could  it  be  that  Vian  had  again  escaped? 

It  was  past  time  for  the  cavalcade  to  start. 

Still  did  the  airs  play  tenderly  with  the  tears  which 
quivered  upon  the  stern,  hard  face  of  the  abbot.  He 
would  not  move  toward  I^ondon.  He  believed,  in  a  dim 
but  jxnent  way,  that  the  child,  who  now  was  rapidly 
coming  to  be  a  man,  —  the  novice  Vian,  —  had  a  hold 
upon  the  future  which  he  would  fain  acquire  for  the 
Church.  It  might  be  lost,  if  he  should  depart  at  that 
moment. 

Could  it  be  that  the  heresy  of  the  hour  had  such 
influence  ? 

Not  this  heresy  alone.  The  heart  of  the  Middle  Ages 
had  what  were  heresies  also  to  monasticism,  —  heresies 
which  were  often  more  potent  and  disruptive  than  those 
of  the  head. 

That  magnificent  procession  had  halted  because 
of  a  boy's  vision,  —  a  vision  which  rose  above  the 
towers  of  Glastonbury,  and  outshone  the  splendor  of 
the  crucifix. 

While  the  abbot  was  worried,  and  hastened  to  the 
inevitable  conclusion  that  he  must  go  to  Parliament  at 
once,  the  sub  prior  was  beholding  something  of  the 
beauty  of  that  vision,  —  a  tattered  thing,  torn  as  it  was 
from  this  youth's  bosom ;  still  its  fragmentary  beauty 
held  him  charmed. 

The  sub-prior  himself,  months  before,  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  wonderfully  interesting  specimen  of 
human  nature,  to  say  the  least,  when  he  brought  Vian 
back  on  that  afternoon  from  More  and  Erasmus,  who 
were  glad  enough  to  give  him  up  to  Glastonbury.  His 
monastic  soul  had  gone  out  with  the  boy's  hopes ;  and 
his  worn  and  wasted  heart  pulsated  in  deepest  sympathy 
with  him,  as  the  youth  said,  "  I  hate  all  monks,  and  I 
love  Master  More." 


FADING  FACTS  AND  LIVING  DREAMS.         153 

The  remark  had  precipitated  a  vast  amount  of  vague 
sadness  in  the  sub-prior's  soul ;  and  now  it  was  full  of 
hard  crystals  of  doubt.  He  became  less  servile  in  his 
thoughts ;  and  often  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  the  dawn 
just  ahead.  Still  he  was  sub-prior,  and  that  position  he 
need  not  give  up ;  still  would  he  be  loyal  to  the  abbot. 
He  quite  loved  the  young  Vian ;  and  when,  in  obedience 
'to  the  abbot's  command,  he  continued  his  search  until 
he  found  the  youth  in  concealment,  living  in  a  sort  of 
dream,  as  he  afterward  told  the  prosaic  head  of  that 
abbey,  his  heart  was  touched ;  and  instead  of  a  rebuke, 
the  sub-prior  gave  Vian  a  pious  kiss.  It  was  also  suffi- 
cient to  emphasize  the  protest  within  him  against  the 
shadow  of  the  past.  The  sub-prior  had  kissed  the 
future. 

Parliament  and  the  abbot's  duties  there  must  be  at- 
tended to ;  and  on  the  assurance  that  all  was  well  with 
Vian,  the  procession  started,  the  heart  most  set  upon  its 
success  feeling  sad,  as  the  abbot  moved  on  and  mused 
concerning  the  dreaming  novice. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  can  be  dreaming  of.  Ah  !  Joseph 
dreamed,"  said  he. 

What  a  dream  for  one  who  had  already  shown  himself 
a  rationalist !  What  a  vision  for  one  who  had  so  soon 
found  his  life  environed  with  such  hard  realities  as  set 
themselves  against  even  the  propriety  of  such  an  halluci- 
nation as  was  Vian's  ! 

It  was  an  old  dream,  and  yet  in  the  midst  of  his 
mental  agony,  which  arose  at  his  contrasting  the  Church 
of  the  past  with  its  fraudulent  representative  in  the  pres- 
ent, it  came  to  the  youth  like  a  new  dream,  so  un- 
churchly,  so  apparently  impious,  but  also  so  imperious. 
The  sub-prior  in  after  years  saw  into  the  working  of  his 
mind.  In  a  youth's  dim  way  Vian  was  conscious  of 
what  was  going  on  within  himself  even  then.  He  had 
felt  himself  entirely  appropriated  by  that  great  ecclesias- 


154  .IfO.YA'  AND  h'XIGHT 

tical  institution,  and  had  thought  indefinitely  of  his  own 
intellectual  individuality  only  as  a  dear  wreck. 

At  the  moment  when  he  was  discovered  by  the  sub- 
prior,  he  knew  that  he,  even  he,  abided  ;  and  he  was 
held  to  that  faith  by  a  dream,  —  a  vision  rather,  which 
could  bode  nothing  but  disaster  at  Glastonbury. 

It  was  a  lover's  dream. 

Friar  Noglas  of  Lutterworth  had  told  the  abbot  about 
what  he  was  pleased  to  term  "  the  child  s  mental  afflic- 
tion." Even  his  mother  expressed  the  hope  that  no 
pains  would  be  spared  to  render  him  free  from  such  a 
mysterious  phantasm.  Only  Vian,  the  child,  took  a  sane 
view  of  the  remarkable  phenomenon.  It  had  not  re- 
curred for  five  years  until  on  that  night  after  the  sight 
of  the  fishing  expedition.  It  had  never  remained  so 
completely  in  charge  of  all  his  mental  faculties,  nor  did 
it  ever  appear  so  sacred  as  then. 

A  lover  always  dreams  in  portraits.  Even  if  his  fancy 
should  put  about  the  figure  which  he  beholds  a  land- 
scape like  Lorraine's,  love  yet  paints  like  Rembrandt  : 
and  the  richest  lights  and  shadows  fall  upon  some  human 
face.  Vian  was  born  a  lover;  and  in  every  quality  of 
his  mind  he  was  a  painter.  It  was  not  remarkable, 
therefore,  that  in  his  very  boyhood  there  should  come 
slowly  and  abide  upon  his  soul  a  picture  which  had  all 
the  hues  of  ideality  and  all  the  lines  of  reality  within  its 
exquisite  features,  — a  portrait  into  which  his  vivid  imagi- 
nation and  his  affectionate  heart  poured  their  treasured 
hopes,  —  the  portrait,  as  he  loved  to  say,  of  his 
"soul's  mate."  It  used  to  furnish  his  mother  with  a 
sort  of  curious  amusement  to  hear  this  loving  boy  of 
hers,  in  the  long  summer  afternoons,  talk  of  a  radiant 
little  maiden  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  whom  she 
knew  that  her  child  had  not  seen. 

She  at  first  had  thought  it  a  most  interesting  and  harm- 
less exercise  of  fancy  and  affection  in  which  he  indulged 


FADING   FACTS  AND  LIVING  DREAMS.         155 

himself,  when,  with  his  brown  curls  still  clinging  to  his 
boyish  head,  he  entertained  her  alone  beneath  the  pur- 
pling lilac-trees  in  the  garden,  discoursing,  like  a  poet, 
of  his  loved  one.  By  and  by  the  child  himself  appar- 
ently saw  that  the  phenomenon  of  a  little  boy  dealing  so 
deeply  with  such  passionate  energies  as  this  floating  por- 
trait had  inspired  within  him,  caused  his  mother  no  little 
concern.  He  always  remembered  hearing  a  conversa- 
tion which  occurred  without  his  presence  being  noted  or 
desired,  in  which  the  priest  Noglas  was  taken  into  the 
secret;  and  asked  if  he  did  think  there  could  be  the 
slightest  danger  of  madness  in  such  a  persistent  and  in- 
tense devotion  to  an  ideal  love. 

The  priest  was  worried.  He  nevertheless  assured 
her,  and  avowed  that  Lutterworth  thought  Vian  was 
to  be  a  great  man,  and  that  it  must  be  expected  that 
he  would  do  strange  things.  True,  the  boy  was  half 
spoiled. 

He  learned  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  in  him  centred 
the  pride  and  hope  of  the  whole  community,  and  that 
his  rather  large  acquirements  at  such  an  age  had  aston- 
ished the  respectable  talents  of  his  elders;  but  as  the 
little  fellow  had  heard  them  talk  of  means  which  should 
be  tried  to  divert  his  mind  from  this  picture  which  al- 
ways stood  on  the  easel  of  the  thought  and  hope  within 
his  soul,  he  ran  in  upon  the  conversation,  and  hid  his 
face  within  his  mother's  bosom,  as  he  told  her  that  he 
never  could  be  great  or  good  without  seeing  constantly 
this  picture  of  his  little  mate.  The  priest  retired  to  make 
his  plans. 

That  love  had  taken  possession  of  Vian's  life ;  it  was 
the  central  light  whose  radiance  made  everything  else 
visible.  It  was  the  solitary  silken  string  on  which  jewel 
after  jewel  of  that  young  life  was  being  strung.  The  be- 
wildered mother  saw  it  long  ago.  Throughout  a  boy- 
hood which  was  guarded  by  care  and  ambition,  as  the 


156  MO.\'A'  AXD  KXJGIIT 

were  lost  in  months  and  the  months  in  years, 
this  solitary  and  misunderstood  boy  was  painting  that 
ideal  portrait,  —  that  exquisite  picture  of  the  sweet 
little  girl  who  lived  somewhere  in  (lod's  universe,  and 
who  already  was  and  forever  would  be  the  real  wife  of 
his  soul. 

Gradually  did  the  portrait  grow.  As  he  grew  to  be  an 
older  child,  so  did  this  lovely  girl-image.  The  picture 
seemed  to  gather  loveliness  and  beauty  from  every  touch 
of  his  experience.  Did  his  eye  catch  sight  of  a  beautiful 
girl?  The  one  immaculate  flash  of  glory  which  made 
her  beautiful  went  into  that  picture  which  he  never  for- 
got. His  father  knew  nothing  of  this  process.  Did  his 
father  ever  read  from  the  line  of  a  poet,  or  from  the 
fragment  of  an  orator,  whose  delayed  message  now  came 
upon  the  sleepy  mind  of  Europe,  some  fine  characteristic 
which  belonged  to  human  nature?  Instantly  this  por- 
trait which  Yun  was  producing  bore  another  delicate 
line,  and  Vian's  loved  one  seemed  more  lovely.  As  he 
played  over  the  hills  and  through  the  dew-covered 
clover,  or  climbed  upon  the  hill-top  to  watch  the  soft 
tints  of  the  rising  sun,  or  gathered  bunches  of  wild-flowers 
for  her  whom  he  had  never  seen,  did  he  find  some  beau- 
teous tint  which  he  had  never  beheld  before  ?  Then  he 
became  a  painter  again ;  and  his  fancy  and  love  mingled 
that  erubescent  color  with  the  rich  blushes  upon  her 
cheek. 

As  sometimes  he  came  through  the  wood,  and  the 
birds  were  still,  and  only  the  lark  in  the  meadow  below 
the  streamlet  along  whose  flowery  banks  he  wandered 
so  much  alone,  was  talking  in  bird-tones  to  its  mate,  he 
would  sit  upon  the  soft  grass  and  listen.  Oh,  how  far 
away  did  she  seem  !  Then  he  listened  again.  Oh,  how 
near  she  came  ! 

He  could  almost  see  her  golden  hair,  and  her  sweet 
lustrous  eyes,  —  that  much  of  the  picture  he  never 


FADING  FACTS  AND  LIVING  DREAMS.         157 

changed.  He  could  not  listen  longer;  the  strain 
was  too  intense.  She  was  too  far  away.  And  then 
he  would  gather  the  ripe  berries,  oozy  with  richness 
and  glossy  with  beauty;  and  then  as  he  would  string 
them  for  her,  placing  one  after  another  upon  the  long 
grasses  which  he  found,  he  would  listen  again  for  her 
voice. 

One  day  he  heard  what  his  heart  certainly  knew  was 
her  voice.  His  dreams  always  took  him  to  that  spot 
where  for  years  he  had  gone,  as  upon  a  soul-pilgrimage, 
and  left  his  tears  with  the  morning  dews.  Then  the 
great  forest-trees  threw  their  cool  shadows  upon  it,  and 
the  wild  roses  made  the  air  fragrant  round  about ;  and 
the  brown-thrush  uttered  his  notes  amidst  the  woodland 
leaves. 

Now,  to  the  eye  of  a  traveller  in  rural  England,  it 
is  only  a  plain,  prosaic  pasture- field,  with  the  masses 
of  sunlight  falling  unbroken  upon  its  simplicity;  yet 
at  the  last  visit  one  who  bears  the  name  of  Vian  found 
there  a  beautiful  wild  rose,  which  lived  upon  a  broken 
and  ancient  little  bush,  and  seemed  to  have  come 
out  of  all  the  changed  circumstances  to  tell  him  of 
an  experience  whose  beauty  was  perennial.  That  rose 
was  carried  to  Vian's  grave,  and  placed  over  his  very 
heart. 

The  spot  is  as  sacred  as  heaven.  There  love  had 
heard  the  voice  of  his  loved  one,  whose  portrait  had 
been  worshipped  in  his  soul. 

As  before  that  morning,  to  which  he  was  always  return- 
ing, his  imagination  had  made  its  happiness  out  of  lines 
and  colors ;  so  after  that  morning  when  he  thought  he 
heard  her  voice,  imagination  found  also  a  noble  delight 
in  tones.  His  fancy  had,  up  to  that  day,  lived  in  his 
eye  ;  henceforth  it  should  also  live  in  his  ear.  He  must 
not  only  look,  he  must  listen,  if  his  soul  were  to  have 
the  fullest  joy. 


158  J/O.VA'  AND  K'XJGHT. 

Sometimes  a  tone  of  the  voice  will  do  everything  to 
clear  up  and  make  vivid  the  lines  of  a  face.  Oftentimes 
one  finds  the  mind  looking  upon  some  mental  picture 
and  trying  to  remember  some  dear  line  in  its  exactness, 
when  suddenly  one  hears  the  voice  as  of  old,  and  the 
ear  helps  the  eye,  so  that  one  seems  to  have  a  definite 
picture  before  the  soul.  It  was  so  with  Vian  when  the 
sub-prior  found  him.  His  soul  had  listened  ;  and  he  had 
heard  her  voice.  Instantly  his  closed  eyes  saw  her,  as 
he  never  saw  her  before.  Oh  the  rapture  of  that  hour,  as 
he  both  saw  and  heard  ! 

Of  course  the  voice  was  just  the  voice  which  he  had 
expected  to  hear.  If  he  had  not  been  thinking  of  her 
at  all,  he  would  have  discovered  those  unique  tones 
in  the  midst  of  universal  confusion ;  but  as  his  soul  was 
intently  thinking  of  her,  the  sounds  which  seemed  to 
have  floated  to  earth  from  heaven  took  his  hushed  spirit 
prisoner,  and  he  said,  "  That  can  be  no  other  voice  than 
hers  ! " 

It  cannot  be  considered  marvellous  that  so  thoroughly 
did  these  tones  harmonize  with  the  pictured  tones  which 
his  eye  had  beheld.  The  voice  is  the  surest  interpreter 
of  character ;  its  tones  lie  deeper  than  the  lines  of  the 
face.  Yet  behind  face  and  voice  is  the  one  soul ;  and 
each  of  its  revelations  harmonizes  with  the  other,  when 
both  are  understood.  Vian's  sympathetic  spirit  heard  on 
that  June  day  the  very  tones  which  he  had  somehow  felt 
must  lie  in  the  breast  of  this  peerless  little  girl.  With 
what  commanding  sweetness  did  they  seize  upon  his  very 
life ;  with  what  delicate  authority  did  they  touch  his 
happy  heart  ! 

Just  as  that  fancied  portrait  had  filled  every  chamber 
of  his  vision  with  its  radiant  beauty  and  satisfied  every 
demand  of  his  growing  culture,  so  these  sounds,  which 
floated  in  upon  his  soul  from  the  somewhere  of  God,  ran 
their  melodious  way  along  through  the  avenues  of  his 


FADING  FACTS  AND  LIVING  DREAMS.         159 

mind,  roused  his  thought  and  sentiment  to  a  strange 
ecstasy,  and  bade  his  soul  quiver  with  loving  emotion, 
as  he  gave  audience.  It  seemed  as  if  his  very  nature 
had  been  created  for  the  superb  harmonies  which  ap- 
peared to  lie  in  her  simplest  tone.  His  spirit  had 
become  a  palpitating  atmosphere,  which  caught  up 
and  transmitted  the  veriest  whisper  of  her  melody. 
Every  sound  came  into  him  like  a  sweet  wanderer; 
and  it  entered  through  unknown  doors  into  his  heart, 
to  find  itself  forever  at  home.  Surely  there  was  but 
one  voice  in  the  whole  universe ;  and  his  ear  had 
listened  to  its  music.  Thrilling,  rich,  and  powerful,  its 
melody  had  stirred  him  again,  even  to  tears,  when  the 
sub-prior  found  him. 

Were  they  tears  of  sorrow  which  came  because  he  had 
heard  her  again  ?  No,  they  were  tears  of  joy  that  what 
he  had  so  often  seen  had  at  last  uttered  something  to  his 
soul  again.  It  seemed  that  every  sweet  chord  which  he 
had  ever  heard  elsewhere  was  woven  into  her  song.  The 
sighing  of  the  tree-tops  in  the  evening ;  the  laughing, 
rippling  melodies  of  the  brooks  which  tinkled  in  every 
silvery  drop  like  a  chorus  of  clear- voiced  bells ;  the- liquid 
notes  of  the  bird  which  just  then  flew  out  into  the  sun- 
light to  be  touched  with  its  gold,  and  back  again  into 
the  emerald  forest ;  the  flute-like  harmonies  which  rose 
from  those  seolian  harps  which  were  then  made  as  the 
slender  reeds  beyond  him  deflected  the  fragrant  southern 
breeze,  —  all  these,  beside  something  so  incommunicable, 
so  celestial,  so  unheard  before,  lived,  moved,  and  spoke 
in  that  incomparable  voice.  He  was  back  again  at 
Lutterworth.  He  stood  listening;  the  long  evening 
shadows  again  disputed  on  his  face  with  the  retreating 
sunshine;  the  voice  died  away.  With  tears  like  unto 
those  which  the  sub-prior  detected  upon  his  cheeks  even 
now,  he  had  often  thanked  God  for  what  he  had  heard, 
and  gone  wearily  homeward. 


160  AfO.YA'  A.\'D  KNIGHT. 

The  sub-prior  withdrew;  but  he  understood  it.     All 
that  night  Vian  lay  listening  in  vain  for  that  one  voice. 

u  Wearily  came  to  the  heart  of  the  night 
Echoes  of  music  which  lived  in  the  light : 
Drearily  weeping,  the  night  throws  away 
Jewels  which  flashed  on  some  fair  yesterday." 

He  kept  saying  to  his  soul,  "  Somewhere  and  at  some 
time  I  will  see  that  face  and  hear  that  voice." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   VISITOR    AT    GLASTONBURY. 

Hard  by,  the  monks  their  Mass  were  saying; 

The  organ  evermore 

Its  wave  in  alternation  swaying 

On  that  smooth  swell  upbore 

The  voice  of  their  melodious  praying 

Toward  heaven's  eternal  shore. 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

ON  the  evening  of  the  25th  of  May  there  arrived  at 
Glastonbury  Abbey  an  innocent- looking  man, 
who  immediately  excited  the  interest  of  every  one,  from 
the  Lord  Abbot  to  the  least  important  of  the  lay-brethren. 
He  was  a  countryman,  without  doubt ;  and  in  his  dress  he 
bore  every  evidence  of  having  no  small  desire  to  measure 
up  both  to  the  duties  which  devolved  upon  him  and  the 
place  of  their  performance.  Most  of  his  wardrobe  was 
upon  his  body ;  and  it  consisted  of  such  a  collection  of 
excesses  in  apparel  as  indicated  that  the  wearer  had 
perhaps  borrowed  for  the  occasion,  of  each  of  his  neigh- 
bors, the  one  most  pretentious  article  of  their  possessions, 
and  gathering  them  together  thus,  had  intended  to  im- 
press Glastonbury,  for  which  he  must  have  a  noble 
regard,  with  his  fitness  as  a  guest.  His  sturtops  were 
new  and  unworn  by  any  contact  with  the  rough  roadway 
which  he  must  have  travelled. 

VOL.  I  —  II 


1  62  J/OArA'  .-L\7)   A'.\7(///y. 


w  I  low  did  he  get  here  without  even  soiling  the  laces 
of  his  boots?"  was  the  query  propounded  by  the  humorous 
Giovanni.  "  He  must  have  dropped  down  from  the  skies. 
Ah,  no;  that  could  scarcely  be.  The  trunk-hose,  stuffed 
as  they  are,  cannot  be  of  heaven.  There  would  not  be 
room  for  all  the  saints  of  the  calendar,  if  many  of  the 
celestial  inhabitants  should  persist  in  wearing  trunk-hose 
like  unto  his." 

The  garters  he  wore  were  of  Granada  silk,  whirh  con- 
trasted unpleasantly  with  his  close-fitting  doublet,  fast- 
ened as  it  was  around  his  waist  by  a  most  elaborately 
decorated  girdle  which  belonged  to  another  day,  and 
never  seemed  quite  sure  of  keeping  together  the  inhar- 
moniously  colored  garments  which  it  touched.  On  his 
head  was  a  green  hat  of  French  manufacture,  which  had 
a  brim  gayly  embroidered  in  silver  and  gold  ;  and  under 
his  significant  chin  peeped  out  an  elegantly  worked  shirt- 
band,  whose  whiteness  was  broken  in  upon  by  wandering 
threads  of  Coventry  blue. 

"  The  great  breeches  which  he  has  upon  him  must 
have  made  his  journey  wearisome  ;  for  he  came  to  us  on 
foot,"  remarked  Fra  Giovanni,  as  he  sought  to  contain 
his  humor,  when  the  visitor  came  sweating  through  the 
cloisters,  ambling  along  industriously  with  the  sub-prior, 
the  preposterous  amount  of  stuffing  in  his  trunk-hose 
making  a  respectable  distance  between  him  and  the 
superior. 

The  monks  became  jolly,  as  Giovanni  led  the  way  for 
their  merriment.  Gratitude  vied  with  good-humor  ;  for 
every  one  who  came  to  break  the  dull  monotony  of  the 
monastic  life  was  looked  upon  as  a  benefactor.  Not 
always,  however,  were  the  monks  so  careful  to  preserve 
ascetic  decorum  so  far  as  to  prevent  their  having  what 
fun  they  might  find  in  the  appearance  of  an  itinerant 
saint  or  the  blunders  of  a  peripatetic  sinner  who  chanced 
to  travel  in  their  paths. 


A    VISITOR  AT  GLASTONBURY.  163 

One  of  the  monks  was  set  to  entertain  the  stranger, 
and  soon  found  out  that  he  had  come  from  a  part  of  the 
country  where  abbeys  were  not  held  in  the  highest  esteem, 
and  that  his  business  connected  itself  with  Vian. 

"  From  Lutterworth  ?  "  That  explained  the  careful- 
ness of  the  sub-prior  and  the  anxiety  of  the  Lord  Abbot. 
The  visitor  answered  that  his  home  was  at  Lutterworth, 
and  showed  that,  in  spite  of  all  Wycliffite  influences,  he 
was  ignorant  and  superstitious,  and  possessed  an  awful 
sense  of  the  obsequious  regard  which  he  ought  to  show 
to  a  Benedictine  friar  at  Glastonbury  Abbey. 

Fra  Giovanni  had  been  very  dull  of  late ;  but  this 
chance  for  entertainment  at  the  visitor's  expense  was  too 
good  to  lose. 

"  I  hold  myself  able,"  said  he  to  Abbot  Richard,  "  in- 
deed, I  am  willing,  so  to  entertain  the  visitor  who  has 
come  from  the  heretical  atmosphere  breathed  by  John 
Wycliffe,  that  he  will  go  back  emptied  of  all  local  pride, 
and  made  humble  before  the  sacredness  of  this  venerable 
abbey." 

The  idea  impressed  the  abbot  as  a  good  one.  Truly, 
the  days  of  hope  for  stalwart  Churchmanship  were  not 
numbered,  so  long  as  Giovanni  would  undertake  vol- 
untarily to  undo  what  the  Lollard  influence  had  done  at 
Lutterworth  within  the  mind  of  this  somewhat  pompous 
visitor,  Thomas  Jenson. 

"  Set  about  it,  with  my  desire  and  blessing.  He  is  here 
to  treat  concerning  the  novice,  Vian.  I  am  beset  with 
heavy  cares.  I  do  not  trust  his  laxity  of  doctrine.  He 
is  full  of  unwise  conceit  of  Lutterworth,"  was  the  grateful 
reply  of  the  head  of  Glastonbury. 

"  I  will  extract  the  whole  of  Lutterworth  from  him," 
promised  Giovanni. 

Now  Giovanni  had  determined  to  attack  this  problem 
through  those  immense  trunk-hose,  which  he  believed 
were  stuffed  with  wool.  The  Lord  Abbot  supposed  that 


1 64  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

the  Italian  monk  meant  to  proceed  through  Thomas 
Jensen's  head  or  heart.  The  name,  Thomas  Jenson, 
flew  from  monk  to  monk  with  astonishing  rapidity ;  and 
every  monk  smiled,  when  it  was  known  that  Fra  Giovanni 
proposed  to  show  to  the  ploughman  from  Lutterworth  the 
sights  of  the  abbey. 

"  I  will  take  the  local  pride  out  of  him,"  said  Giovanni. 

Visiting  the  House  of  Parliament,  under  the  invitation 
or  command  of  Abbot  Richard  Beere,  several  of  the 
monks  had  seen  the  posts  placed  in  the  walls  which  up- 
held a  sort  of  scaffold,  upon  which  those  were  accustomed 
to  sit  who  wore  these  great  breeches.  Giovanni  had 
been  informed  that  sometimes  they  were  filled  with  saw- 
dust or  with  bran ;  and  he  determined,  at  the  proper 
moment,  to  pierce  one  of  Thomas  Jensen's  hose,  not  to 
reduce  its  compass,  but  to  take  the  local  pride  out  of 
him.  That  proper  moment  had  arrived. 

Standing  in  front  of  the  abbey  clock,  which  had  suffi- 
ciently excited  the  wonder  of  the  stranger  from  Lutter- 
worth, the  humorous  monk  explained  to  him  that  the 
Devil  loved  to  ensnare  a  victim  whom  he  might  catch 
exhibiting  undue  curiosity  in  sacred  places ;  that  no  one 
who  had  ever  absolutely  obeyed  the  instructions  which 
Giovanni  was  about  to  impart  had  ever  lost  his  soul  in 
that  way ;  that,  on  the  other  hand,  others  who  had  dis- 
dained such  advice  had  become  the  prey  of  the  Evil  One ; 
and  that,  to  be  specific,  those  who  desired  to  behold  the 
glories  of  the  abbey  must  on  no  account  look  backward. 
"  ^ e  gam  heaven,"  said  the  monk,  in  pious  tone,  "  in 
looking  forward  and  upward." 

Giovanni  had  punctured  the  breeches.  A  small  hole 
was  left  open  in  the  lower  part  of  Thomas  Jensen's  trunk- 
hose.  Bran  began  to  fall  upon  the  floor  of  the  south 
transept,  in  a  small  but  constant  stream.  Still  did  the 
man  of  Lutterworth  marvel  at  the  splendors  of  this  reli- 
gious house.  Giovanni  now  led  his  victim  through  the 


A    VISITOR  AT  GLASTONBURY.  165 

Chapel  of  St.  Joseph,  leaving  behind  the  visitor  a  stream 
of  bran  five  hundred  and  eighty  feet  in  length.  Out 
into  the  cloisters  and  into  the  arcade  they  went,  on  to 
the  east  side,  even  to  the  entrance  of  the  chapter-house, 
where  the  monks  were  assembled  for  confession.  As 
monk  after  monk  afterward  sought  the  ear  of  his  con- 
fessor, that  solemn  individual's  ear  was  astonished  with  a 
burst  of  laughter  from  the  sin-burdened  brother. 

The  Lord  Abbot's  throne  was  immediately  in  front. 
Thomas  Jenson  had  not  looked  behind  him,  though  for 
long  minutes  he  had  been  suffering  agonies  of  distrust 
and  fear.  Giovanni's  face  was  serene.  But  the  Lord 
Abbot  beheld  the  shrunken  visitor,  who,  his  eyes  assured 
him,  was  the  veritable  Thomas  Jenson  of  Lutterworth. 
The  latter  was  perspiring  immoderately,  and  for  a  while 
he  gazed  first  at  the  abbot,  then  toward  Giovanni,  as  if  he 
desired  to  ask  if  it  would  be  perilous  to  remove  the 
sweat-drops  from  his  face,  and  at  length  he  was  piteously 
insisting  that  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  obeyed 
every  injunction  of  Giovanni's,  the  Devil  had  infested  his 
trunk-hose. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  he,  "  that  the  Devil  could  get 
into  such  holy  places." 

For  this  once  Abbot  Richard  dared  publicly  to  cen- 
sure Fra  Giovanni;  but  one  look  from  the  Italian  si- 
lenced the  throne.  Every  monk  laughed ;  and  Fra 
Giovanni  agreed  with  the  Lord  Abbot,  that  if  any  brother 
in  Glastonbury  had  played  the  part  of  Satan  with  Thomas 
Jenson's  breeches,  he  himself  should  see  that  the  culprit 
suffered  severe  flagellation  at  his  hands. 

"  The  local  feeling  has  gone  out  of  him,  at  least  so  far 
as  his  hose  is  concerned,"  said  Giovanni  to  the  sacristan. 
"  I  was  set  to  reduce  his  importance  and  his  impression 
of  himself,  and  to  produce  an  impression  upon  him  of  our 
importance.  I  have  not  succeeded ;  but  I  have  made  it 
impossible  for  any  monk  to  get  the  same  impression 


/.V/>    A\\'/i;//T. 

which  he  at  the  first  made  upon  my  innocent  brethren 
in  Glastonbury  Abbey." 

Thomas  Jenson  had  come  to  the  abbey  to  represent 
the  proper  authorities  of  Lutterworth,  and  to  announce 
that  the  property  which  belonged  to  Vian,  under  the  will 
of  his  father,  must  now  be  given  over  to  his  uses,  and 
that  Vian,  with  a  competent  witness  from  Glastonbury, 
must  proceed  to  Lutterworth  and  at  once  conclude  the 
business. 

Thomas  Jenson,  in  other  years,  had  known  Vian's 
father,  and  in  spite  of  his  ignorance,  had  become  one  of 
the  guardians  of  the  property.  It  consisted  of  an  oaken 
box,  containing  many  manuscript  letters,  and  the  books 
which,  in  obedience  to  the  will,  the  other  guardian  had 
purchased. 

Abbot  Richard,  who  himself  had  once  been  a  devotee 
of  '•  the  new  learning,"  had  not  a  single  perfectly  ortho- 
dox friar  at  Glastonbury  with  whom  he  dared  to  trust 
what  small  funds  might  thus  pass  into  the  treasury  of  the 
abbey.  His  mind  had  often  remarked  that  the  monks 
of  his  house  who  set  such  store  by  correctness  of  belief, 
were  most  reprehensibly  derelict  in  practice,  and  that 
the  men  of  "  the  new  learning  "  were  both  honest  and 
clean. 

He  chose  as  the  companion  of  Vian,  the  sub- prior, 
who  had  often  served  Abbot  Richard,  though  he  had 
given  him  no  little  trouble  and  cause  for  further  worry, 
because  he  had  allowed  the  brethren  who  could  read  the 
Greek  and  Latin  authors  to  converse  freely  concerning 
what  they  read,  and  to  talk  together  of  well-known  here- 
tics. But  the  sub-prior  was  at  least  honest ;  and  he  was 
trying  to  be  loyal  to  the  traditions  of  Glastonbury  in 
spite  of  his  growing  thought. 

From  the  hour  in  which  Vian  was  torn  from  the 
affectionate  but  temporary  protection  of  Erasmus  and 


A    VISITOR  AT  GLASTONBURY. 

Thomas  More,  he  had  never  once  lost  sight  of  a  hope 
bound  up  with  the  life  of  the  famous  Dutch  scholar.  For 
all  these  years  had  his  thoughts  wandered  away  from 
Glastonbury  unto  Erasmus ;  and  when  on  that  May  day 
of  1514,  the  sub-prior  of  the  abbey  was  sent  with  him  on 
the  mission  to  Lutterworth,  Vian  was  delighted  to  find 
out  that  they  were  instructed  also  to  visit  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Cambridge,  in  order  that  the  sub-prior  might  con 
suit  with  reference  to  the  education  of  certain  young 
men  who  had  been  placed  under  the  care  of  the  abbot. 
There  Vian  knew  he  would  be  accorded  the  privilege 
of  seeing  Erasmus  again. 

Little  did  Abbot  Richard  suspect,  as  he  was  thinking 
that  day  that  for  a  time  at  least  Vian  would  not  be  able 
to  hear  the  heretical  monks  of  Glastonbury  quote  Greek 
and  Latin  odes,  that,  instead,  this  hopeful  child  of  his 
heart  should  overhear  a  conversation  in  Cambridge  which 
was  calculated  to  make  such  an  one  as  he  a  pronounced 
heretic. 

They  had  been  in  Cambridge  three  days,  when  they 
were  asked  into  Queen's  College.  It  seemed  the  edge 
of  heaven  to  Vian,  as,  with  the  sub-prior,  he  waited  for 
a  word  with  the  scholar.  The  eye  of  the  boy  soon 
gazed  upon  the  figure  of  Erasmus,  as  he,  acute  and  self- 
contained  as  he  appears  in  the  etching  of  Van  Dyke, 
rose  to  make  a  correction  in  the  manuscript  which  con- 
tained the  results  of  his  labors  on  the  works  of  Saint 
Jerome,  or  as  he  sat,  as  we  still  may  behold  him  on  the 
canvas  of  Holbein,  holding  in  one  hand  the  pen  with 
which  he  wrote  the  paraphrase  of  Saint  Mark,  and  bear- 
ing upon  the  ringers  of  the  other  an  elaborate  adornment 
of  rings.  His  white  and  delicate  skin  was  not  less  lus- 
trous, because  of  the  dark  yellow  hair  which  fell  about  his 
ears.  His  tireless  blue  eyes  were  set  like  warders  above 
a  face  whose  principal  features  were  a  nose  whose  every 
portion  trembled  with  the  man's  emotion,  or  stood  out 


1 68  J/tf.VA'  AND  KX1G11T. 

sharply  like  a  sword  keen  as  his  wit,  and  a  mouth  whose 
flexibility  and  power  any  orator  might  have  coveted. 
When  he  spoke,  what  he  said,  and  the  sentences  in  which 
his  ideas  were  expressed,  became  witnesses  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  putting  the  instrumentalities  of  learning  into 
order,  and  that  it  was  possible  that  the  machinery  of 
scholarship  might  soon  be  used  for  loftier  purposes  than 
his  measure  of  courage  should  adopt.  There  was  always 
a  tentative  and  hesitant  tone  in  his  voice.  The  deep 
friendship  of  Erasmus  for  Andreas  Ammonius,  who  was 
the  Pope's  collector  in  England  and  Latin  Secretary  to 
Henry  VIII.,  indicated  how  easily  eminence  which  shuns 
great  crises  seeks  the  companionship  of  mediocrity. 

n  the  sub- prior  enjoyed  the  witticisms  of  Erasmus, 
as  they  fell  unsparingly  upon  cardinals  and  monks. 

"  My  good  friend  here,"  said  Erasmus,  pointing  to  the 
secretary  of  the  king,  "  has  provided  me  with  better 
wine.  I  dislike  the  beer  of  Cambridge  as  much  as  your 
Lord  Abbot  dislikes  the  sermons  of  Master  John  Colet. 
But  the  wine  of  (ilastonbury  and  Colet's  sermons  need 
no  praise  of  mine." 

Erasmus  was  quite  safe  in  the  hands  of  the  sub-prior ; 
for  since  the  accession  of  the  latter  to  that  eminence, 
and  through  the  influence  of  Fra  Giovanni  and  the 
.••  Praise  of  Folly,"  this  worthy  dignitary  had  grown  quite 
liberal  in  his  views  as  to  the  work  of  Dr.  John  Colet, 
and  he  was  almost  convinced  that  the  Church  was  about 
to  pass  through  a  reformation  or  a  revolution. 

Andreas  Ammonius,  who  had  begun  life  as  an  apostolic 
notary,  was  only  a  well- furnished  and  intelligent  Italian 
who  kept  Erasmus  from  certain  embarrassments  attend- 
ant upon  dwelling  in  the  unfurnished  apartments  of  the 
Augustinians  when  he  came  to  London.  His  mind  acted 
as  a  foil  to  the  intellect  of  the  stronger  man.  As  secre- 
tary for  the  king  in  the  Latin  tongue,  and  a  friend  of  the 
scholar,  he  labored,  often  with  a  zeal  which  went  far 


A    VISITOR  AT  GLASTONBURY.  169 

beyond  wisdom,  to  bind  together  in  common  affection 
the  Dutch  scholar  and  the  king's  greatest  man,  Thomas 
Wolsey. 

To  the  Italian  mind  it  seemed  remarkable  that  two 
such  powerful  spirits  should,  as  often  as  they  met,  ap- 
pear as  eagerly  to  avoid  a  friendship.  To  each  of  these, 
however,  for  whom  he  labored  in  vain,  it  was  evident 
that  such  an  affection  as  he  proposed  was  impossible. 
Wolsey  was  pre-eminently  a  man  of  affairs  ;  Erasmus 
was  a  scholar.  Wolsey  considered  Oxford  as  a  means  to 
an  end ;  Erasmus  looked  upon  every  Cambridge  as  an 
end  in  itself.  Wolsey,  born  of  the  democracy,  was  sure 
to  become  an  aristocrat,  even  an  autocrat.  Erasmus, 
born  an  aristocrat  in  ability  and  trained  to  be  almost  an 
autocrat  in  the  walks  of  learning,  had  already  broken  in 
upon  the  exclusion  of  arrogant  and  learned  pretence 
with  desolating  power.  The  Renaissance  with  Erasmus 
was  at  first  a  quiver  of  lightnings  with  which  he  had 
dared  to  play  in  the  vicinity  of  masses  of  inflammable 
material  which  had  been  gathered  together  in  the  course 
of  long  centuries  in  the  history  of  State  and  Church.  At 
the  first  instant  of  their  appearance,  Wolsey  had  seen  that 
each  bolt  was  as  full  of  fire  as  of  light.  He  was  willing 
to  use  both  the  light  and  the  fire,  —  the  one  to  illuminate 
a  path  to  the  highest  position ;  the  other  to  burn  away,  if 
necessary,  every  obstacle  in  that  path.  Neither  he  nor 
the  foreigner  who  had  come  into  Henry's  realm  with  so 
much  of  revolution  in  his  words  had  comprehended  the 
moral  aspects  which  so  soon  portray  themselves  in  every 
intellectual  movement.  The  Chancellor  was  to  hold 
back,  if  possible,  the  causes  of  a  moral  revolution ;  the 
scholar  was  to  control,  if  possible,  the  effects  sure  to 
proceed  from  those  causes.  One  was  to  die  at  last  with 
the  shadow  of  the  throne  upon  his  soul ;  the  other  was 
to  die  with  the  gigantic  upheaval  which  he  had  helped  to 
initiate,  hurling  his  repressive  conservatism  into  the  air. 


I/O  MOM  AND  AW/G//T. 

•id  so  you  think  that  monastic  institutions  are 
certain  to  pass  into  decay,"  said  the  sub-prior  of 
Glastonbury. 

Vian  listened  with  the  ears  of  a  Wycliffite. 

'•  I  should  not  be  a  monk  leading  a  secular  life,  other- 
replied  Erasmus,  who  at  that  moment  also  re- 
minded Ammonius,  who  had  remarked  on  his  dress,  that 
long  ago  he  had  been  allowed  to  abandon  his  monkish 
habit,  and  that,  in  obedience  to  the  desires  of  the  Bishop 
of  I'trecht,  he  clung  to  the  white  linen  scapulary  which 
fell  over  the  cassock  and  was  crowned  with  a  black 
hood. 

Nut  the  dress  but  the  remark  of  Erasmus  struck  the 
novice  forcefully.  He  thought  of  the  one  flogging  which 
Abbot  Richard  himself  had  administered  to  him  on  a 
certain  day  when  Giovanni  was  absent,  and  he  could  yet 
see  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  spiritual  lord,  as  the  latter  cried 
out,  "  You  will  never  be  a  good  monk.  The  curse  of 
Saint  Benedict  be  upon  such  a  Benedictine  novice  as 
are  you  !  "  —  and  Vian  remembered  also  that  the  disap- 
pointed old  man  tenderly  embraced  him  afterward,  and 
cried,  as  he  said,  "  I  would  release  you  and  send  you 
to  the  court  of  the  king,  if  I  could  trust  the  heretics 
there." 

Association  with  Erasmus  at  London,  and  his  visits 
to  him  at  Cambridge  had  made  the  secretary  of  the 
king  somewhat  of  a  radical.  He  was  at  least  plain- 
spoken. 

"  There  is  surely  something  else  in  life  for  a  man  such 
as  Vian  will  make,  —  something  beside  a  frock  and  the 
word- monge ring  of  unlearned  priests." 

The  remark  of  Ammonius  fell  fruitlessly  upon  the  ears 
of  the  sub- prior,  who  only  stroked  his  ample  chin  and 
sipped  the  excellent  wine.  He  was  wondering  what  Vian 
and  he  would  most  likely  find  in  that  package  of  papers 
at  Lutterworth.  Vian  was  a  promising  scholar,  and  he 


A    VISITOR  AT*GLASTONBURY.  171 

was  aware  .that  he  himself  was  distressed,  as  he  heard 
this  elder  scholar  talk  in  his  presence  so  freely.  Surely 
Vian  could  not  endure  much  more  heresy  and  remain 
at  Glastonbury.  These  reflections  made  him  glad  that 
Vian  was  absent  from  them  for  the  nonce. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Erasmus,  —  "  for  I  have  quite  fallen 
in  love  with  that  novice  Vian,  —  tell  me  of  the  youth's 
culture.  What  can  Glastonbury  Abbey  do  for  such  a 
soul  as  just  awhile  ago  looked  out  at  me  through  those 
calm  eyes?  Ah  !  1  do  not  forget  that  Abbot  Richard 
Beere  intended  him  to  be  head  of  the  abbey  by 
and  by." 

The  sub-prior  began  to  reply,  conscious  only  of  the 
difficulties  with  which  life's  way  is  beset,  at  the  moment 
one  stops  to  think  :  "  He  has  been  a  troublesome  novice, 
Master,  a  high-mettled  youth ;  and  no  abbot  can  control 
the  seething  life  of  his  mind,  as  it  overflows  barriers  the 
most  ancient  and  reverend.  He  was  once  the  abbot's 
hope ;  he  is  now  the  abbot's  despair." 

"  Nothing,"  said  Erasmus,  "  nothing  whatever  is  so 
ancient  and  reverend  as  the  human  soul.  Nothing  is 
so  worthy  of  our  despair  as  an  acquiescent  youth  in  an 
abbey." 

Vian  had  come  within  hearing.  Every  word  of  Erasmus 
made  his  breast  lift  with  revolution.  He  was  becoming 
sensitive  to  external  facts  and  their  supremacy  over  him. 
To  hear  what  the  sub-prior  might  say  would  perhaps 
interfere  with  the  working  out  of  his  life's  problem,  by 
the  hands  which  he  had  begun  to  feel  must  undertake 
it  alone.  It  sometimes  seemed  as  if  others  were  living 
his  life  for  him.  He  must  leave  the  overhearing  of  that 
conversation  at  any  sacrifice.  > 

"  Abbeys,  great  men  and  small  men,  revivals  of  learn- 
ing, reforms,  changes,  —  these  are  huge,  inconceivably 
great  or  little,"  thought  he.  "  They  are  tossing  me 
about  every  whither,  and  it  may  be  that  through  all  my 


172  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

life  they  will  toss  me  about.  But  hereafter  I  shall 
at  least  keep  my  feet  under  me  and  the  open  sky  above 
me." 

As  Erasmus  spoke,  Vian  was  listening ;  and  as  the 
novice  recollected  that  episode  in  the  abbey,  it  occurred 
to  him,  for  the  first  time,  that  perhaps  a  secular  life 
would  be  his  good  fortune  by  and  by. 

"  Not  a  great  man  in  scholarship  or  in  ecclesiastics 
has  come  forth  from  an  abbey  in  many  years.  Abbot 
Richard  Beere  coming  up  to  Parliament  with  a  splendid 
army  is  to-day  a  reminiscence  of  a  bygone  age.  The 
Church  is  dealing  with  the  length  of  men's  beards,  in- 
stead of  those  important  changes  which  are  forcing  them- 
selves upon  her.  The  people  will  not  always  pay  pence 
or  listen  to  Mass  so  uncomplainingly.  Ah,  child,  —  no, 
a  young  man  you  are  now,  as  I  see,  —  I  remember  you 
on  the  dusty  roadway.  What  have  you  read?" 

'•The  '  Praise  of  Folly/  "  said  Vian,  quietly,  —  "  the 
'  Praise  of  Folly,'  Master,  and  some  other  books." 

Erasmus  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  sub-prior  was 
quite  unnerved.  He  had  not  hitherto  suspected  Fra 
Giovanni's  complete  treachery  to  Abbot  Richard  Beere. 
The  one  book  which  Vian  had  been  prevented  from  see- 
ing, so  thought  Abbot  Richard  and  the  sub- prior  here 
present,  —  indeed  so  promised  Fra  Giovanni,  —  was  the 
"  I 'raise  of  Folly,"  by  Erasmus. 

"  We  must  hasten  on,"  said  the  sub-prior,  strangely 
connecting  in  his  thought  the  book  mentioned  with  the 
packet  of  papers  at  Lutterworth  which  at  this  age,  by 
the  dictate  of  his  father's  will,  Vian  was  to  receive,  in 
addition  to  the  Caxton  and  Aldine  books  which  had  been 
purchased  for  him,  according  to  that  testament.  "  We 
must  hasten  to  Lutterworth.  Our  stay  here  has  been 
only  too  long.  I  have  come  to  observe  the  course  of 
certain  youths  who  are  being  taught  here,  and  are  under 
the  control  of  our  worthy  abbot/  I  fear,  Master  Eras- 


A    VISITOR  AT  GLASTONBURY.  173 

mus,  that  if  Abbot  Richard  Beere  knew  that  you  had 
spoken  thus  before  such  a  youth,"  placing  his  hand 
upon  the  stool  upon  which  Vian  had  been  sitting,  and 
from  which  he  had  just  vanished,  "  he  would  consider 
them  worthy  of  safer  surroundings." 

"  I  have  been  made  to  feel  that  nothing  is  as  safe  as 
truth,"  thought  Vian,  who  stood  without,  near  the  open 
window,  and  looked  up  into  the  infinite  solitude  of  the 
blue  sky. 

A  moment  more  and  he  had  silently  walked  away,  and 
reaching  the  close  shade  by  a  well-worn  path,  he  had 
seated  himself  beneath  a  young  elm,  to  find  his  boyhood's 
vision  stealing  over  his  soul. 

Meanwhile  the  sub-prior  was  attempting  to  enlighten 
Erasmus  concerning  the  short  and  disappointing  career 
of  Vian  at  Glastonbury. 

"  As  I  have  said,  he  was  almost  unruly  in  his  thoughts, 
and  he  would  have  avoided  many  pains  for  himself  and 
those  who  loved  him  well,  if  he  had  kept  his  thoughts 
to  himself." 

"  The  only  hope  of  age  is  that  youth  will  not  and  can- 
not keep  its  thoughts  to  itself,"  suggested  the  scholar. 

"  I  would  not  have  you  think  of  him  as  an  ill-bred  and 
rebellious  novice,"  pursued  the  sub-prior.  "On  the 
other  hand,  no  one  could  surpass  him  in  external  obedi- 
ence. He  outwardly  took  leave  of  every  relative  — ' 

"  Except,  perhaps,  the  ghost  of  that  Wycliffite  father." 

"  Yes,  except  that  heretical  father,  whom  he  has  in  his 
very  blood." 

"I  could  see  it  in  his  dislike  of  monasticism,"  said 
Erasmus. 

"  Even  Abbot  Richard  has  had  to  yield  before  that 
dead  man  oftentimes.  But  the  lad  has  bowed  with 
reverence  to  the  command  of  the  master  of  novices, 
learning  so  rapidly,  however,  that  he  has  often  made  him 
to  bow  unto  his  youth  —  " 


174  MONK'  AND  K. \1GHT. 

••  And  to  regard  him  as  heretical,  I  doubt  not,  because 
he  knew  more  than  his  teacher.  That  is  the  way  of  the 
world." 

••  Kven  so  !  I  believe  it,  for  I  count  not  Vian  among 
the  young  heretics,  although,  like  myself,  he  reads  many 
forbidden  books.  He  is  an  industrious  novice,  and  has 
never  refused  a  mortification  or  a  labor ;  oftener  has  he 
labored  at  studies  beyond  his  years.  Fra  Giovanni  has 
taught  him  Italian." 

At  this  point  Andreas  Ammonius  withdrew ;  and  almost 
before  the  sub-prior  had  begun  another  sentence  with 
Erasmus,  the  Latin  secretary  had  broken  in  upon  Vian's 
dream  with  a  question  spoken  in  Italian,  and  had  found 
himself  engaged  with  an  accomplished  young  linguist. 

'•That  Andreas,  best  of  good  fellows,  has  gone  to 
try  his  Italian,"  said  Erasmus.  "  Proceed ;  your  story 
interests  me." 

"  Pacing  the  cloisters,  as  one  would  to  search  for  talent, 
no  manlier  novice  could  be  found.  But  Vian  never 
seems  to  have  found  happiness.  If  achievement  in 
scholarship  were  joy,  he  would  be  most  joyous.  He  has 
translated  '  The  King  and  the  Monk  Compared,'  from 
Saint  John  Chrysostom,  from  Greek  into  Latin ;  and  al- 
though our  abbot  dislikes  Greek,  even  in  the  Fathers, 
he  rejoiced  at  Vian's  accomplishment.  Three  years  in 
the  abbey,  and  now  his  second  in  the  novitiate,  he  knows 
as  much  as  the  eldest,  of  the  higher  studies.  He  is 
always  hearing  Abbot  Richard  piteously  repeating  the 
words  of  Saint  Benedict,  —  words  and  tears  mingling  as  he 
remembers  Vian's  Wycliffite  father,  — '  Let  the  abbot  un- 
derstand that  to  the  shepherd  will  the  fault  be  ascribed, 
if,  when  the  father  of  the  family  comes,  any  of  his  sheep 
be  found  missing.  Then  only  shall  he  be  justified,  if 
he  has  given  all  his  care  to  an  indocile  and  refractory 
flock  —  '" 

"  Oh,"  remarked  Erasmus,  with  a  trifle  of  impatience, 


A    VISITOR  AT  GLASTONBURY.  175 

"  I  know  all  the  rules.  What  of  the  novice  ?  He  may 
perish  with  all  these  rules.  What  else  has  he  learned?" 

"  He  knows  the  theology  of  the  mystics  and  ecclesias- 
tics and  scholastics  by  heart.  But  I  know  your  opinion 
of  these." 

"  Ah  !  you  may  know  my  opinion.  Even  the  world 
must  know  it,"  said  the  scholar,  warmed  into  a  flame, 
as  he  stood  and  spoke  to  the  sub-prior  as  if  he  would 
lecture  the  theologian  from  Glastonbury. 

At  this  moment  Ammonius  and  Vian  entered,  but 
Erasmus  heeded  not.  "  I  suppose,"  continued  he,  "  that 
no  such  mass  of  useless  persons  ever  existed.  It  might 
be  better  for  me  to  pass  the  divines  by.  They  are  a 
supercilious  and  irritable  race.  If  provoked,  they  may 
rush  upon  me  in  a  body,  armed  with  six  hundred  con- 
clusive arguments,  and  force  me  to  recant.  If  I  refuse, 
they  may  forthwith  raise  the  cry  of  heresy ;  for  that  is 
the  thunder  with  which  they  terrify.  It  is  true  that  there 
are  none  less  willing  to  acknowledge  themselves  depend- 
ent on  my  bounty ;  but  for  all  that  they  are  deeply  in  my 
debt,  as  it  is  I  who  bestow  upon  them  that  self-love  by 
which  they  are  able  to  fancy  themselves  caught  up  to  the 
third  heaven,  and  to  look  down  on  the  rest  of  mankind, 
as  if  they  were  so  many  sheep  feeding  on  the  ground ; 
and  indeed  they  pity  their  miserable  condition,  while 
they  are  themselves  protected  by  so  vast  an  array  of 
magisterial  definitions,  conclusions,  corollaries,  propo- 
sitions implicit  and  explicit,  and  have  so  many  loop- 
holes of  escape,  that  no  chains,  though  they  should  be 
forged  on  the  anvil  of  Vulcan,  can  hold  them  so  fast  but 
they  will  contrive  to  extricate  themselves;  for  which 
purpose  they  are  provided  with  a  number  of  fine  distinc- 
tions with  which  they  can  cut  all  knots  more  easily  than 
the  sharpest  axe,  and  with  a  vast  supply  of  newly  In- 
vented terms  and  words  of  prodigious  length." 

Erasmus    seemed    to    hold    his    breath   through    this 


176  J/aVA-  AND   KNIGHT 

mighty  sentence.  To  the  sub-prior  it  was  anr  indictment 
which  easily  took  his  breath  away.  Ammonius  looked 
at  it  as  a  sentence  of  judgment,  and  was  transfixed. 
Vian's  face  bore  a  smile ;  but  it  was  not  the  smile  of  silly 
youth,  though  it  half  irritated  the  sub-prior. 

>mus  talked  on,  until  the  silence  wearied  him. 
Then,  perceiving  that  he  had  taken  undue  advantage 
of  Abbot  Ru  hard  in  thus  speaking  in  Vian's  presence, 
he  asked  Ammonius  to  show  the  library  to  the  novice. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

A   SHAKING    FAITH. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

TENNYSON. 

"  r  I  "'ELL  me  more  of  the  novice,"  said  the  scholar. 

X  When  the  sub-prior  was  sure  of  his  own  tongue, 
he  said,  "  Vian  has  mastered  the  decretals  also ;  and 
having  learned  canon  law,  he  has  become,  for  one  so 
young,  a  scholar  in  the  civil  law." 

"That,"  said  Erasmus,  "has  been  told  me  by  Am- 
monius  himself.  In  his  conversation  of  yesterday  he 
found  the  novice  ready  in  reply.  He  will  tell  the  Lord 
Chancellor  Wolsey  of  this,  I  am  sure." 

The  sub-prior  was  startled  with  the  fancy  that  perhaps 
at  some  distant  day  so  great  a  man  as  Wolsey  would 
require  the  services  of  Vian.  Erasmus  was  more  than 
willing  to  hear  everything  as  to  his  knowledge  of  history 
and  his  love  for  politics  and  statecraft ;  and  it  appeared 
to  the  sub-prior  that  he  chattered  with  a  sort  of  sus- 
picious glee,  as  he  led  the  way  toward  the  greensward 
near  which  Vian  and  Ammonius  were  standing. 

Suddenly  stopping,  the  sub-prior  said,  "  I  should  feel 
I  had  wronged  you,  if  I  said  not  that  one  unfortunate 
hallucination  besets  him." 

Erasmus  turned,  and  walking  with  the  sub-prior  back 
VOL.  i.  — 12 


178  J/O.VA-  AXD  A\v/u//r. 

1    his    lodgings,    asked,    "  Has   he    ever    seemed 
mad  ?  " 

V  T,  not  even  melancholic.     No.     But 

a  novice  must  not  dream  of  the  other  sex,"  said  the  sub- 
prior,  solemnly. 

'•Is  it  more  wicked  in  a  novice  than  in  a  pope  or  a 
bishop?"  inquired  Krasmus. 

"Ah,  but  such  a  dream  he  has  had  since  his  childhood. 
Now  and  then  he  is  possessed  by  it." 

"  Would  that  1  had  kept  my  child-dreams  !  "  said  the 
great  scholar. 

•id  I  mine,"  added  the  sub-prior,  as  he  proceeded 
to  tell  Krasmus  of  V:  >n. 

Silently  the  scholar  listened ;  and  as  the  moments  flew 
by,  these  two  men  —  full-grown,  and  partly  disillusioned 
by  cares  and  studies,  one  of  whom  had  been  officially 
connected  with  an  institution  which  made  love  unholy 
and  the  marriage  of  souls  an  iniquity,  the  other  of  whom 
was  still  under  the  vows  of  a  monk,  and  yet  a  profound 
student  of  human  nature  —  abandoned  themselves  to  the 
luxury  of  Vian's  beautiful  dream,  took  up  into  their  own 
imagined  experiences  this  sweet  vision  of  the  novice; 
and  so  they  travelled  hand  in  hand,  as  children  grown 
old,  wandering  with  the  youth's  glad  feet  over  the  soft 
grasses  of  Lutterworth  and  across  its  streams,  sitting 
down  on  the  thymy  banks  with  Vian's  little  mate,  hearing 
them  utter  to  each  other  their  tender  vows,  while  the 
nightingale  fluttered  and  the  lark  slept,  beholding  the 
innocent  rapture  of  their  hearts  as  they  walked  over 
the  meadow  orchis  and  the  blue  veronica,  for  very  joy 
gathering  cranesbill  and  white  violets  to  strew  the  turf 
withal  beneath  the  wide  beeches,  —  there  they  lived, 
loveless,  unloved,  in  a  boy's  dream,  until  tears  hung  like 
livid,  fiery  protests  against  the  monkish  life  which  denied 
the  sacredness  of  such  a  vision. 

The  scheming  and  solitary  Ammonius  soon  returned, 


A   SHAKING  FAITH 


179 


and  at  once,  but  altogether  unconsciously,  changed  the 
direction  which  the  conversation  had  been  taking.  He 
»had  found  a  companion  in  Vian,  and  was  full  of  a  politi- 
cian's plans,  to  the  proposal  of  which  the  sub-prior  and 
Erasmus  replied  not.  "  No  youth  in  England,"  said  the 
secretary,  "  will  so  ably  support  the  cardinal  in  his  con- 
version of  the  monasteries  into  colleges ;  "  and  the  mo- 
ments passed  by  rapidly,  as  they  talked  about  all  possible 
careers  for  young  men  in  England. 

This  conversation  bore  sufficient  testimony  to  the  feel- 
ings which  possessed  such  minds  at  that  hour.  England, 
like  France  and  Germany,  had  already  been  transformed 
by  the  Renaissance.  Each  seemed  to  foresee  the  changes 
consequent  upon  a  finer  consciousness,  on  the  part  of  the 
common  people,  of  their  own  social  and  intellectual  im- 
portance, and  a  less  generous  estimate  of  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal aristocracy,  which  consciousness  and  estimate  were  to 
come  in  with  this  sort  of  reform. 

Vian  supposed  that  by  this. time  all  conversation  per- 
taining to  himself  had  been  abandoned,  and  that  it  would 
be  perfectly  proper  for  him,  without  a  word  of  announce- 
ment, to  walk  into  the  apartment  of  Queen's  College 
which  he  had  left  so  suddenly. 

As  he  came  up  the  well-worn  walk  and  was  about  to 
enter  the  room,  the  laugh  of  Ammonius,  hearty  and  *yet 
hesitant,  as  if  obstructed  by  an  uncongenial  atmosphere, 
broke  upon  his  ears.  Little  did  Vian  know  what  the 
excellent  sub- prior  had  been  suffering  while  Erasmus  had 
been  giving  a  few  hints  of  his  visit  to  the  shrine  of  Our 
Lady  of  Walsingham. 

This  dignitary  from  Glastonbury  had  found  it  impossi- 
ble to  accede,  by  so  much  as  a  smile,  to  a  theory  of  saints 
and  shrines  which  he  had  begun  to  feel  was  the  true  one. 
He  saw  that  if  he  laughed  outright,  having  more  con- 
science and  less  intellect  than  Erasmus,  his  own  soul 
could  not  occupy  the  standpoint  of  the  Dutch  scholar, 


ISO  AtONA'  AND  KXIGHT. 

and  most  likely  would  go  over  to  the  Reformers.  And 
then  he  was  on  his  way  to  Lutterworth,  the  old  home  of 
John  Wycliffe  !  And  Vian.  —  Vian  might  hear  him  laugh.  • 

While  he  struggled,  F.rasmus  proceeded  with  the  story, 
much  as  he  has  told  it  to  the  world  of  readers  in  the 
"  Familiar  Colloquies,"  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  Am- 
monius  within,  and  to  the  great  interest  of  Vian,  who  still 
stood  without ;  also  to  the  total  discomfiture  of  the  vacil- 
lating sub-prior,  who  did  not  know  where  he  was ;  who 
however  wished  he  was  on  the  road  to  Lutterworth  with 
Vian. 

"  I  was  trying  to  be  worshipful  as  any  monk.  I  in- 
tended to  go  and  pray  for  the  triumph  of  the  Holy 
League.  Indeed,  I  was  ready  to  hang  up  what  I  knew  no 
monk  would  be  likely  to'be  able  to  read,  —  a  votive  offer- 
ing, a  Greek  ode.  Thinking  I  might  not  be  sufficiently 
pious,  I  asked  Robert  Aldridge  to  accompany  me.  We 
arrived  as  the  winds  were  sighing  through  the  windows, 
and  the  tapers  burned  brightly  above  the  shrine,  which 
was  covered  with  costly  ornaments.  There  stood  the 
greedy  canon  at  the  altar,  watching  for  thieves  with  one 
eye  and  estimating  the  value  of  everybody's  gift  with  the 
other.  Now  you  know  that  saints  never  grow  old,  and 
so  I  was  not  surprised  to  see  Saint  James  looking  so 
young.  He  looked  a  little  disturbed,  however,  —  the 
great  apostle  that  used  to  glitter  with  gold  and  jewels, 
now  brought  to  the  very  block  that  he  is  made  of,  having 
scarce  a  tallow  candle.  The  Virgin  Mary,  you  know, 
being  of  stone,  has  written  a  letter  objecting  to  such 
neglect  as  will  expose  all  the  saints  to  the  danger  of  com- 
ing to  the  same  pass.  She  puts  the  blame  upon  the 
Reformers,  who  think  it  a  thing  altogether  needless  to 
invoke  saints.  It  has  always  amused  me  to  see  her 
stand  there  so  unconcerned,  while  a  pilgrim  pretending 
to  lay  one  gift  on  the  altar,  by  some  sleight  of  hand  steals 
what  another  has  laid  down. 


A    SHAKING  FAITH.  i8l 

"At  the  north  side  there  was  a  certain  gate,  —  not  of  a 
church,  don't  mistake  me,  but  of  the  wall  that  encloses 
the  churchyard,  that  has  a  very  little  wicket,  as  in  the 
great  gates  of  noblemen,  —  that  he  that  has  a  mind  to  get 
in,  must  first  venture  the  breaking  of  his  shins  and  after- 
ward stoop  his  head  too. 

"  But  yet  the  verger  told  me  that  some  time  since,  a 
knight  on  horseback  having  escaped  out  of  the  hands  of 
his  enemy,  who  followed  him  at  the  heels,  got  in  through 
this  wicket.  The  poor  man  at  the  last  pinch,  by  a  sud- 
den turn  of  thought,  recommended  himself  to  the  Holy 
Virgin  that  was  the  nearest  to  him.  For  he  resolved  to 
take  sanctuary  at  her  altar  if  the  gate  had  been  open, 
when  behold,  which  is  such  a  thing  as  was  never  heard 
of,  both  man  and  horse  were  on  a  sudden  taken  into  the 
churchyard  and  his  enemy  left  on  the  outside  of  it,  stark 
mad  at  his  disappointment. 

"  Toward  the  east,"  continued  Erasmus,  without  a 
smile,  "  there  is  another  chapel  full  of  wonders ;  thither 
I  went.  Another  verger  received  me.  There  we  prayed 
a  little ;  and  there  was  shown  us  the  middle  joint  of  a- 
man's  finger.  I  kissed  it,  and  asked  whose  relic  it  was. 
He  told  me  it  was  Saint  Peter's.  '  What ! '  said  I,  <  the 
apostle  ?  '  He  said  it  was.  I  then  took  notice  of  the 
bigness  of  the  joint,  which  was  large  enough  to  be  taken 
for  that  of  a  giant.  Upon  which  said  I,  «  Peter  must 
needs  have  been  a  very  strong  man.'  At  this,  one  of  the 
company  fell  a  laughing.  I  was  very  much  vexed  at  it, 
for  if  he  had  held  his  tongue,  the  verger  would  have 
shown  us  all  the  relics.  However,  we  pacified  him  pretty 
well,  by  giving  him  a  few  groats.  Before  this  little  chapel 
stood  a  house,  which  he  told  us,  in  the  winter-time  when 
all  things  were  buried  in  snow,  was  brought  there  on  a 
sudden  from  some  place  a  great  way  off.  Under  this 
house  were  two  pits,  brimful,  that  were  fed  by  a  fountain 
consecrated  to  the  Holy  Virgin,  ^he  water  was  wonder- 


MONK  AND 

fill  cold,  and  of  great  virtue  in  curing  pains  in  the  head 
and  stom 

"  I,  observing  everything  very  diligently,  asked  him 
how  many  years  it  was  since  that  little  house  was  brought 
thither.  He  said  it  had  been  there  for  some  ages. 
'  But,'  said  I,  '  methinks  the  walls  don't  seem  to  carry 
any  marks  of  antiquity  in  them  :  '  He  did  not  much 
r  these  pillars,'  said  I.  He  did  not  deny 
but  those  had  been  set  up  lately ;  and  the  thing  showed 
itself  plainly.  *Th  I,  '  that  straw  and  the  reeds, 

the  whole  thatch  of  it  seems  not  to  have  been  so  long 
laid.'     He  allowed  it. 

(1  they  tell  us  the  same  stories  about  our  Lord's 
cross,  that  is  shown  up  and  down,  both  publidy  and  pri- 
vately, in  so  many  places  that  if  all  the  fragments  were 
gathered  together  they  would  seem  to  be  sufficient  load- 
ing for  a  good  large  ship ;  and  yet  our  Lord  himself 
carried  the  whole  cross  upon  his  shoulders. 

•   I  paid  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  Saint  Tho; 
Becket     My  companion  had  read  Wycliffe's  books.     It  is 
one  of  the  most  religious  pilgrimages  in  the  world. 

"  Iron  grates  enclose  the  place  called  the  choir,  so  that 
there's  no  entrance,  but  so  that  the  still  open 

from  one  end  of  the  church  to  the  other.  You  ascend  to 
this  by  a  great  many  steps,  under  which  there  is  a  certain 
vault  that  opens  to  a  passage  to  the  north  side.  There 
they  show  a  wooden  altar  consecrated  to  the  Holy  Vir- 
gin. It  is  a  very  small  one,  and  remarkable  for  nothing 
except  as  a  monument  of  antiquity,  reproaching  the  lux- 
ury of  the  present  times.  In  that  place  the  good  man  is 
reported  to  have  taken  his  last  leave  of  the  Virgin  when 
he  was  at  the  point  of  death.  Upon  the  altar  is  the 
point  of  the  sword  with  which  the  top  of  the  head  of  that 
good  prelate  was  wounded,  and  some  of  his  brains  that 
beaten  out  to  make  sure  work  of  it.  We  most 
religiously  kissed  the  sacred  rust  of  this  weapon,  out  of 


A  SHAKING  FAITH.  183 

love  to  the  martyr.  Leaving  this  place,  we  went  down 
into  a  vault  under  ground ;  to  that  there  belonged  two 
showers  of  relics.  The  first  thing  they  show  you  is  the 
skull  of  the  martyr  as  it  was  bored  through :  the  upper 
part  is  left  open  to  be  kissed  ;  all  the  rest  is  covered  over 
with  silver.  There  also  is  shown  you  a  leaden  plate  with 
this  inscription,  '  Thomas  Acrensis.'  And  there  hang  up 
in  a  great  place  the  shirts  of  hair-cloth,  the  girdles  and 
breeches,  with  which  this  prelate  used  to  mortify  his  flesh, 
the  very  sight  of  which  is  enough  to  strike  one  with  horror 
and  to  reproach  the  effeminacy  and  delicacy  of  our  age. 

"  From  hence  we  returned  to  the  choir.  On  the  north 
side  they  opened  a  private  box.  It  is  incredible  what  a 
world  of  bones  they  brought  out  of  it,  —  skulls,  chins,  teeth, 
hands,  fingers,  whole  arms ;  all  of  which  we  having  first 
adored,  kissed.  Nor  had  there  been  any  end  of  it,  had 
it  not  been  for  one  of  my  fellow-travellers,  who  indis- 
creetly interrupted  the  officer  that  was  showing  them  all. 

"  He  was  an  Englishman ;  his  name  was  Master  John 
Colet,  —  a  man  of  learning  and  piety,  as  you  know,  but  not 
so  well  affected  to  this  part  of  religion  as  I  could  wish  he 
were  for  the  comfort  of  Abbot  Richard  Beere.  He  took 
out  an  arm  having  yet  some  bloody  flesh  upon  it ;  he 
showed  a  reluctance  to  the  kissing  of  it,  and  a  sort  of 
uneasiness  in  his  countenance ;  and  presently  the  officer 
shut  up  all  his  relics  again.  After  this  we  viewed  the 
table  of  the  altar  and  the  ornaments  :  all  was  very  rich  ; 
you  would  have  said  Midas  and  Croesus  were  beggars 
compared  to  them,  if  you  had  beheld  the  great  quantities 
of  gold  and  silver. 

"After  this  we  were  carried  to  the  vestry.  Good 
Lord  !  what  a  pomp  of  silken  vestments  was  there,  of 
golden  candlesticks  !  There  we  saw  also  Saint  Thomas's 
pastoral  staff.  It  looked  like  a  reed  plated  over  with  sil- 
ver ;  it  had  but  little  of  weight  and  nothing  of  workman- 
ship, and  was  no  longer  than  up  to  one's  girdle. 


184  .I/aVA'  A.\'D   KXIGIIT. 

"  In  a  certain  chapel  there  was  shown  to  us  the  whole 
face  of  the  good  man,  set  in  gold  and  adorned  with  jew- 
els ;  and  here  a  certain  unexpected  chance  had  near 
interrupted  all  our  felicity. 

'•  My  friend  Colet  lost  himself  here  extremely.  After 
a  short  prayer  he  says  to  the  assistant  of  him  that  showed 
us  the  relics :  '  Good  father,  is  it  true,  as  I  have  heard, 
that  Thomas,  while  he  lived,  was  very  charitable  to  the 
poor?'  'Very  true,1  replies  he;  and  he  began  to 
relate  a  great  many  instances  of  his  charity.  *  Then,' 
answered  Colet,  '  I  don't  believe  that  good  inclination  in 
him  is  changed  unless  it  be  for  the  better.'  The  officer 
assented.  *  Then,'  says  he  again, « if  this  holy  man  was 
so  liberal  to  the  poor,  when  he  was  a  poor  man  himself, 
and  stood  in  need  of  charity  for  the  support  of  his  own 
body,  don't  you  think  he  would  take  it  well  now  when  he 
is  grown  so  rich  and  wants  nothing,  if  some  poor  woman 
having  a  family  of  childien  at  home  ready  to  starve, 
or  daughters  in  danger  of  being  under  a  necessity  to 
prostitute  themselves  for  want  of  portions,  or  a  husband 
sick  in  bed  and  destitute  of  all  comforts,  —  if  such  a  woman 
should  ask  him  leave  to  make  bold  with  some  small  por- 
tion of  these  vast  riches  for  the  relief  of  her  family,  tak- 
ing it  either  as  by  consent,  or  by  gift,  or  by  way  of 
borrowing  ?  '  The  assistant  making  no  answer  to  this, 
Colet  being  a  warm  man,  '  I  am  fully  persuaded,'  says 
he,  '  that  the  good  man  would  be  glad  at  his  heart  that 
when  he  is  dead  he  could  be  able  to  relieve  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  poor  with  his  wealth.'  Upon  this  the  shower 
of  the  relics  began  to  frown,  and  to  pout  his  lips,  and  to 
look  upon  us  as  if  he  would  have  eaten  us  up ;  and  I 
don't  doubt  but  he  would  have  spit  in  our  faces  and 
have  turned  us  out  of  the  church  by  the  neck  and  shoul- 
ders but  that  we  had  the  archbishop's  recommendation. 

'•  Again  my  John  Colet  behaved  himself  in  none  of  the 
most  obliging  manners.  For  the  gentle  prior  offered  to 


A   SHAKING  FAITH.  185 

him,  being  an  Englishman,  an  acquaintance,  and  a  man 
of  considerable  authority,  one  of  the  rags  for  a  present, 
thinking  he  had  presented  him  with  a  very  acceptable 
gift ;  but  Colet  unthankfully  took  it  squeamishly  in  his 
fingers,  and  laid  it  down  with  an  air  of  contempt,  making 
up  his  mouth  at  it  as  if  he  would  have  smacked  it.  For 
it  was  his  custom  if  anything  came  in  his  way  that  he 
would  express  his  contempt  to.  I  was  both  ashamed  and 
afraid.  Nevertheless  the  good  prior,  though  not  insensi- 
ble of  the  affront,  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  it,  and 
after  he  had  civilly  entertained  us  with  a  glass  of  wine, 
dismissed  us,  and  we  went  back  to  London." 

Poor  Vian  was  discovered  by  the  sub-prior,  listening. 

He  was  surely  in  a  most  pitiable  condition  of  mind  to 
use  for  the  developing  of  his  faith  the  air  of  Lutterworth, 
to  which  town  the  sub-prior  now  insisted  they  should  go 
as  soon  as  possible. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AT   LUTTERWORTH   AGAIN. 

But  rich  was  he  of  holy  thought  and  work. 

He  also  was  a  learned  man  —  a  clerk. 

That  Christ's  gospel  truely  would  preach, 

His  parishens  devoutly  would  he  teach. 

Benign  he  was,  and  wondrous  diligent, 

And  in  adversity  full  patient , 

And  such  he  was  yproved  often  sithes, 

Full  loth  were  him  to  answer  for  his  tithes, 

But  rather  would  he  given,  out  of  doubt, 

Unto  his  poor  parishioners  about 

Of  his  offering,  and  eke  of  his  substance. 

He  could  in  little  thing  have  suffisance. 

Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  far  assunder. 

But  he  ne  left  nought  for  ne  rain  nor  thunder. 

In  sickness  and  in  mischief,  to  visit 

The  farthest  in  his  parish,  much  and  lit, 

Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staff. 

This  noble  example  to  his  sheep  he  yaf, 

That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterwards  he  taught. 

CHAUCER:  Canterbury  Tales. 

AS  on  horseback  the  sub-prior  and  Vian  travelled 
across  Northampton  toward  Lutterworth,  the  former 
tried  in  vain,  for  the  sake  of  the  abbot,  to  whom  he  had 
pledged  his  faith,  to  revive  Vian's  interest  in  the  scho- 
lastic theology.  But  the  summer-time  was  more  elo- 
quent to  this  poetic  youth  than  either  Scotus  Erigena 
or  the  sentences  of  Peter  Lombard.  The  sub-prior 
knew  that  scholasticism  was  once  a  most  needed  revival 
of  intellectual  life;  and  he  was  sure  that  Vian's  love 


AT  LUTTERWORTH  AGAIN.  187 

of  free  inquiry  must  honor  such  a  soul  as  Abelard  or 
Thomas  Aquinas.  But  much  as  he  respected  their 
fearlessness  and  power,  he  had  not  a  thread  of  the 
scholastic  in  his  whole  spirit.  Vian  was  a  mystic. 

"  Scholasticism  is  quibbling  about  shadows.  I  prefer 
the  blue  sky  and  the  broad  green  fields.  I  do  not  expect 
anybody  to  explain  them.  I  can  understand  neither.  I 
need  not.  They  are  realities  to  me ;  and  I  have  a  sense 
of  liberty  with  them." 

There  was  a  snapping  of  chains  in  these  sentences 
which  did  not  wholly  displease  the  sub-prior.  Still  he 
persisted  in  the  discussion  of  the  question  as  to  the 
language  probably  used  by  the  devils  in  hell. 

It  was  difficult  for  the  sub-prior  to  find  an  anchorage 
for  his  own  faith  in  the  religious  feelings.  He  felt  that 
something  must  be  settled,  and  knowing  Vian's  scholar- 
ship, he  sought  to  obtain  with  his  knowledge  a  conclusion 
on  this  topic.  Vian  now  and  then  would  contribute  a 
remark  indicating  his  acquaintance  with  the  struggles 
between  the  "  Greeks  and  Trojans,"  as  the  literary  com- 
batants of  the  time  were  calling  themselves ;  but  his 
attention  constantly  wandered  to  the  turf  at  the  wayside, 
and  the  play  of  shadows  on  the  stream.  Through  all  the 
murky  theologizing  of  his  companion,  his  own  ideas  were 
entangled  with  the  anemones  and  primroses  as  he  saw 
them  struggling  together  with  the  gorse  on  the  side  hills, 
and  the  cowslips  and  celandines  in  the  valleys  below. 

"  No  Pope  Leo  X.  dictates  to  the  bluebells,"  said  he ; 
"  and  yet  they  are  beautiful,  —  beautiful  because  they  are 
free  to  be  true  to  themselves  and  to  Heaven." 

The  sub-prior  felt  that  this  was  only  another  outburst 
of  Vian's  mystical  thought,  —  so  mysterious,  yet  so  fresh 
and  charming  even  to  his  jaded  soul. 

"  Think  of  the  flowers  behaving  as  we  do  !  "  proceeded 
the  novice  impatiently,  and  yet  with  a  strain  of  sorrow  in 
his  words.  "  Nay,  rather ;  the  Son  of  God  had  not  said, 


A/O.VA'  AXD   KXIGHT. 

>ider   the    lilies  of  the    field/  if  they   had   toiled 
and  spun  and  had  corded  themselves  with  unwelcome 
and  coarse  cloth,  or  had  fought  about  tassels,  and  had 
conjured   up  sacred  patterns  of  painful  ugliness,  i 
monks  do." 

"  I  told  Erasmus  that  you  had  read  his  '  Praise  of 
Folly,' "  said  the  sub-prior. 

-  1'irdon  me  !  I  myself  told  him  that  piece  of  news,  at 
which  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  appears  plain  to 
me  that  the  might v  Kr.ismus  fears  the  consequences  of 
that  humorous  book.  He  is  not  as  brave  as  he  is  keen 
and  learned.  Did  you  think  I  was  then  praising  folly?" 

At  length  they  were  on  the  bridge  which  in  two  heavy 
arches  crossed  the  Swift,  which,  to  use  Fuller's  oft-quoted 
words,  "  conveyed  Wycliffe's  remains  into  the  Avon,  as," 
added  he,  "  Avon  into  the  Severn.  Severn  into  the  narrow 
seas,  they  to  the  main  ocean.  And  thus  the  ashes  of 
Wyrlifle  are  the  emblem  of  his  doctrine,  which  is  now 
dispersed  the  world  over." 

The  day,  however,  of  Thomas  Fuller  had  not  yet  ar- 
rived ;  and  even  the  youth,  now  fast  coming  to  his  man- 
hood, who  was  looking  at  that  monument  upon  the  tower 
of  the  old  parish,  church,  as  it  rose  above  the  roofs  imme- 
diately in  front,  had  no  thought  that  any  such  ideas  as 
once  occupied  the  mind  of  one  of  his  ancestors  should 
cause  an  open  breach  between  him  and  the  Church. 

"  Let  us  behold  the  books,"  said  the  young  scholar, 
who  had  returned  from  the  churchyard  where  at  last  his 
mother's  dust  peacefully  slumbered  by  the  side  of  that  of 
his  heretical  father.  "  I  would  get  what  God  may  have 
left  for  me  in  this  lonely  parish  of  Lutterworth,  and  then 
depart.  Those  graves  are  farther  apart,  I  trust,  than 
their  souls  be  now." 

The  young  monk's  face  was  filled  with  the  soft  bright 
light  of  the  infinite  daytime,  as  he  looked  up  to  heaven. 


AT  L  UTTER  WOR  TH  A  GAIN.  j  89 

Old  Roger  Fleming,  who  had  been  a  traveller  in  all 
parts  of  Europe,  and  the  friend  of  Vian's  father,  had 
carefully  made  the  purchases  provided  for  in  the  will. 

The  bibliomaniac  of  to-day  feels  a  lively  envy  at  the 
thought  of  the  sight  which  greeted  Vian.  Here,  on 
vellum,  was  the  "  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,"  an  exquisite 
manuscript,  and  stainless,  save  at  the  page  which  some 
one  had  read  too  often,  —  the  page  which  says  much 
of  the  sins  of  the  clergy  and  the  hope  of  reform. 

"This,"  said  old  Roger,  "was  Master  John  Wycliffe's 
copy.  Those,"  pointing  to  the  marks  upon  the  page, 
"  were  made  by  his  own  hand  when  he  was  master  of 
Balliol.  See  !  he  has  even  placed  the  date  on  the  page." 

The  words  marked  were  :  — 

"  If  possessions  be  poison 
And  imperfect  them  make, 
Good  were  to  discharge  them 
For  holy  church  sake, 
And  purge  them  of  poison 
Ere  more  peril  befall." 

"  Ah  !  John  Wycliffe  was  a  prophet,"  said  Vian  to  the 
sub- prior,  who  answered  not. 

"  Here  is  another  page  which  the  master  marked." 
The  aged  Roger  turned  to  the  lines,  — 

"And  yet  shall  come  a  King 
And  confess  you  all 
And  beat  you,  as  the  Bible  telleth, 
For  breaking  of  your  rule, 
And  amend  you  monks  and  monials, 
And  put  you  to  your  penance, 
Ad pristinum  statum  ire. 
And  barons  and  their  bairns 
Blame  you  and  reprove." 

"  Not  in  your  day  or  mine,"  said  Vian  to  the  old  man, 
"  shall  these  things  be." 

"  Henry  VIII.  of  England  is  a  brave  and  thoughtful 
sovereign,"  answered  the  aged  Lollard;  his  blue  eyes, 


190  MONK'  AND  h'. \IGHT. 

which  were  hidden  by  heavy  gray  blows,  looking  out 
with  a  steady  gleam  of  hope.  He  placed  his  finger  on 
the  Latin  word  spes,  which  Wycliffe  had  written  opposite 
these  lines ;  and  the  old  man's  frame  shook,  as  he  said 
with  defiance,  "  Hope  ! " 

The  echo  often  came  back  to  Vian,  —  Hope  ! 

The  old  man  hobbled  away,  as  if  he  had  said  all 
that  he  desired  to  utter,  and  Yum  and  the  sub-prior  were 
left  alone. 

11  This  will  never  be  allowed  a  place  in  the  library," 
said  the  sub-prior,  to  whom  Fra  Giovanni  had  one  day 
recited  some  of  the  epigrams,  and  who  now  held  in  his 
hand  "Calderini  (Dom)  Commentorii  in  Murtiulem." 

The  sub-prior  could  no  longer  conceal  his  joy.  He 
patted  the  thick  small  folio  as  tenderly  as  would  a 
bibliophile  of  modern  days,  opened  to  its  first  page, 
and  found  gold  and  colors  on  the  borders ;  admired  the 
Roman  type,  and  thought  of  the  forty- two  years  which 
had  elapsed  since  the  hour  when,  in  Venice,  it  first  saw 
the  light. 

"  How  will  Erasmus,  if  ever  he  should  visit  Glaston- 
bury  again,  and  if  ever  we  get  this  book  through  the 
gateway,  —  how  will  Erasmus  like  this,  think  you  ?  "  and 
Vian  carried  to  the  sub-prior  the  1477  folio  edition  of 
Lucian's  "  Pharsalia." 

"  Erasmus,  you  say,  is  the  Lucian  of  our  age,"  replied 
the  sub-prior,  in  the  midst  of  the  surprises,  as  he  opened 
to  the  Milanese  designs  which  some  one  had  added  to 
the  titlepage. 

Here  were  copies  of  "  ^Esop's  Fables,"  in  leathern  and 
oaken  boards,  printed  also  at  Milan  in  1480  ;  fche 
"  Game  And  Playe  of  ye  Chesse,"  which  Caxton  had 
brought  out  in  1474;  the  Aldine  "  Horace  "  of  1501, 
and  the  "  Dante  "  of  the  next  year,  whose  pages  were 
worn  with  memorials  of  the  student's  interest,  which  man- 
ifested itself  in  significant  lines. 


AT  LUTTERWORTH  AGAIN. 


IQI 


"We  shall  be  overloaded,"  said  the  sub- prior,  who 
added,  "These  are  priceless." 

"  I  am  the  richest  man  in  England,"  said  Vian,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  I  would  be  the  richest  man  if  I  were  not  a 
Benedictine  of  Glastonbury." 

"  But  no  abbot  who  is  in  his  senses  will  allow  these 
books  within  his  holy  precincts." 

The  sub-prior  had  just  found  a  play  of  Terence,  Venice, 
1471  ;  and  a  volume  of  Ovid,  by  Aldus,  1502  ;  also  the 
"Lucretius  "  of  1486. 

"Why  should  Abbot  Richard  object  to  these?"  asked 
Vian.  "Lucretius  was  no  more  atheistic  than  some  of 
the  cardinals  of  the  Church,  and  the  penny-monks,"  — 
for  so  the  Dominicans  and  Franciscans  who  in  the  four- 
teenth century  wove  buffooneries  and  poor  tales  into 
their  sermons,  were  called.  "They  have  used  <;Gesta  Ro- 
manorum '  as  a  preacher's  resource  for  long  years.  The 
fables  in  '  Gesta  Romanorum '  are  stolen  from  Ovid  and 
his  like." 

"And  Master  John  Wycliffe  castigated  the  penny- 
monks  with  his  censures  at  Lutterworth  and  Oxford," 
said  old  Roger  Fleming,  who  had  hobbled  back  again, 
carrying  a  little  oaken  chest  whose  weight  did  not  burden 
him. 

"What  have  you  there,  good  man?"  inquired  the 
young  scholar  and  the  sub- prior. 

"  The  most  valuable  treasure  which  your  father  could 
give  you.  Good  friar,  I  know  not  what  you  will  be  able 
to  do  with  it  in  Glastonbury  Abbey ;  but  here  it  is.  I  have 
done  my  part  in  keeping  it;  God  help  you  do  your 
part ! " 

There  was  in  the  air  a  strange  feeling  that  they  were 
standing  in  a  holy  place. 

The  monk  knew  not  how  heavy  with  revolutions  was 
that  small  box  which  had  been  so  easily  carried  by  the 
weak  old  man ;  neither  did  the  sub- prior  suspect  that  the 


192  AfOX/C  AND  KXIGHT. 

entrance  of  its  contents  into  Glastonbury  Abbey  could 
make  those  solid  walls  tremble,  in  the  eyes  of  the  breth- 
ren, as  never  any  mo>t  potent  explosives  made  any  city's 
battlements  tremble  under  the  attack  of  a  storming  foe. 
Ideas  alone  are  able  to  dissolve  rock  and  form- 
yet  leave  them  apparently  untouched.  Beneath  the  ivy 
which  overspreads,  and  within  the  mortar  which  attaches 
the  hugest  stones,  the  potency  of  truth  works  its  quiet 
transformations ;  and  while  men  sleep  within,  the  un- 
troubled solidity  of  the  most  massive  enclosure  has  be- 
come a  monument  or  a  ruin. 

That  box  was  full  of  the  letters  which  John  WyclirTe, 
scholar,  saint,  and  heretic,  had  written  to  Vian's  great- 
grandfather in  the  stormy  years  immediately  preceding 
the  heretic's  death. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

A   WALDENSIAN   OF   THE    RENAISSANCE. 
"  Post  tenebras  spero  Lucem." 

ON  the  6th  of  June  there  was  joy  at  the  house  of 
Caspar  Perrin,  who  with  Alke  was  occupying  a 
picturesque  habitation  to  which  they  had  removed,  from 
whose  doorway  could  be  heard  the  plash  of  the  torrent 
of  Angrogna,  and  what  is  now  only  the  ruined  fortress 
of  La  Torre  could  be  seen.  It  was  the  anniversary  of 
Alke's  birth ;  and  the  friends  of  the  industrious  cottager 
and  the  admirers  of  his  remarkable  daughter  came  with 
congratulations  for  him  and  kisses  for  her  rosy  lips.  The 
Barbe",  whose  ministerial  duties  lay  in  the  valley  which 
was  protected  by  the  mighty  chain  of  mountains  stretch- 
ing round  about,  had  arranged  to  make  his  annual  visit 
to  Caspar  at  this  time ;  and  the  very  bells  of  the  cattle 
mingling  their  sounds  with  the  music  of  murmuring 
cascades  tinkled  the  gladness  of  the  holiday. 

Alke  had  just  come  in  from  the  field  with  a  large  sheaf 
of  ripe  corn  in  her  arms.  The  golden  beards  almost  out- 
rivalled  her  beautiful  hair  in  delicate  splendor.  The 
broad  leaves  of  rich  green  ivy,  which  half  hid  the  door- 
way in  which  she  stood,  vied  in  depth  of  color  with  her 
dark,  entrancing  eyes.  A  smile  lit  up  Caspar's  face. 
Even  the  unworldly  Barbe"  was  impressed  with  the  beauty 
of  the  picture. 
VOL.  i.  —  n 


IQ4  -J/aVA'  .M'/>    h'XIGHT. 

"To  what  curious  use  do  you  mean  to  put  the  sheaf 
of  grain?  "  inquired  the  father,  who  had  humored  every 
innocent  whim  of  his  child,  and  whose  pride  in  her  ability 
to  create  a  world  of  beauty  out  of  homely  facts  manifested 
itself  in  his  manner,  and  made  him  quite  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  they  could  hardly  spare  from  their  poverty  even 
this  much  of  the  harvest  for  the  demands  of  art. 

"  I  am  going  to  show  the  Barb£  how  I  paint  the  illu- 
minations upon  the  parchment.  He  likes  to  see  my 
pretty  pu-tures  ;  and  he  made  me  promise  him,  when  he 
was  last  here,  that  I  should  paint  for  him  when  the  corn 
I>e." 

From  Venice  the  father  had  brought  some  acquaint- 
ance with  the  secret  of  staining  vellum  with  what  could 
scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the  true  Tynan  dye ;  and 
now  Caspar  knew  of  no  one  quite  so  competent  as  was 
Alke  to  outshine  a  monk  as  an  artist  on  parchment,  or  so 
able,  if  need  be,  to  watch  the  goats  in  their  wanderings 
for  food.  He  could  not  forget  a  saying  of  Aldus  Manu- 
tius  :  "  There  is  no  distance  in  a  true  life  between  the  real 
and  the  ideal ;  the  practical  and  the  poetical  are  one." 
Alke  had  found  wood  upon  the  .mountains,  when  her 
father  was  sick  in  midwinter ;  and  recently  she  had  been 
indulging  the  hope  of  keeping  the  two  from  starvation  by 
selling  secretly,  through  means  into  whose  nature  he 
would  not  inquire,  to  the  monks  of  Turin,  an  elaborately 
painted  but  small  manuscript,  which  the  audacity  of  girl- 
hood had  undertaken. 

'•  Ah  !  "  said  the  Barb£,  who  in  spite  of  much  wisdom  was 
a  reflection  of  that  bigotry  so  often  born  of  anti-bigotry, 
"  I  would  not  have  the  child  make  pictures  for  monks." 

"  She  shall  be  permitted  to  keep  the  skeleton  of  pen- 
ury from  her  father's  door,  shall  she  not?" 

The  Barbe  was  convinced  that  Caspar's  strength  of 
tone  had  already  answered  that  question.  Hunger  still 
looked  gaunt  in  the  eye  of  the  peasant. 


A    IVALDENSIAN  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE.      195 

"  I  should  not  allow  her  to  paint  such  pictures  as 
adorn  Ave  Marias.  Nor  would  she  be  holding  before  her 
innocent  eyes  even  the  visions  which  such  a  maiden  may 
have  of  saints  and  vigils.  You  answer,  that  she  gets  coin 
from  our  foes?  We  cannot  afford  to  spoil  even  the 
Egyptians  in  this  holy  contest,"  said  the  preacher,  who 
had  heard  that  Caspar's  daughter  was  shrewd  enough  to 
cbtam  many  bright  coins  from  the  priests. 

"  There  can  be  no  peril  in  Alke's  tasks,  for  the  child 
regards  the  saints  as  she  does  the  personages  in  Homer 
and  Virgil,"  answered  Caspar. 

"What  can  she  know  of  Homer  and  Virgil?"  was  the 
Barbe"'s  instant  query. 

The  proud  father  arose,  went  to  the  little  shelf,  and 
returning,  handed  the  pious  critic  the  Aldine  "  Homer  " 
of  1504,  adding:  "I  set  the  types  for  this  volume.  I 
have  taught  Alke  the  whole  story,  and  she  reads  some 
Greek.  As  for  Virgil,  I  may  have  something  for  you  to 
look  at  some  day,  —  something  which  even  Erasmus 
longed  to  see." 

The  radiant  creature  who  had  meanwhile  arranged  the 
masses  of  corn  and  flowers  so  that  their  appearance  was 
a  piece  of  art,  came  close  to  her  father,  who  held  the 
"  Homer  "  in  his  hand,  put  her  beautiful  arm  about  his 
neck,  pulled  his  rough  face  to  her  soft  lips,  and  kissed 
him. 

"  That  is  nobler  than  painting  upon  a  missal ;  and  the 
act  itself  is  finer  than  any  picture,"  said  the  Barbe",  who 
was  not  yet  pleased  with  Alke's  tasks. 

Alke  had  learned  at  this  very  early  age  what,  if  she 
had  lived  in  a  monastery  and  had  found  more  missals 
to  illuminate,  would  have  been  called  missal-painting. 
Caspar  had  told  her  of  the  wealth  of  exquisite  color  and 
worshipping  affection  which  in  other  centuries  monks 
had  lavished  upon  the  stories  of  saints  and  the  life  of  the 
Saviour.  He  was  not  sufficiently  puritanical  to  dislike 


196  AfO.YA'  A. YD    h'XIClfT. 

the  idea  of  his  daughter's  efforts  at  creating  beautiful 
things.  The  Renaissance  had  not  given  him  any  more 
precious  substitute  for  a  fragment  of  a  certain  brevi- 
ary, which  was  once  the  possession  of  Alke's  mother,  — 
an  heirloom  of  contending  memories,  which  had  come 
straight  from  the  family  of  Count  Aldani  Neforzo.  In 
an  hour  of  tearful  memory  he  had  given  it  to  Alke's 
eager  girlhood.  The  leaves  comprised  only  a  soiled  frag- 
ment ;  for  everything  which  in  any  way  perpetuated  a 
holy  fable  or  enshrined  a  breath  of  superstition  had  been 
torn  away,  in  one  of  those  other  moments  when  Caspar 
had  felt  himself  almost  a  militant  protester. 

"  As  young  Angelo  confessed  the  Torso  in  Lorenzo's 
garden  to  be  his  master,  so,  my  child,  you  must  take  these 
to  be  yours,"  said  the  proud  man  to  his  ambitious  child. 
And  then  he  would  talk  on  and  relate  again  the  well- 
known  story  of  Michael  Angelo,  which  he  had  heard  Pico 
della  Mirandola  repeat  to  Aldus  the  printer,  in  Venice. 

There,  in  that  little  cottage  to  which  they  had  removed 
so  recently  from  sadder  scenes,  through  the  afternoons 
when  others  were  tending  the  goats,  sat  this  sad  and 
burdened  girl,  surrounded  with  the  materials  for  her  art. 
As  the  Barb£  looked  over  these,  he  found  himself  par- 
tially reconciled  to  the  idea  of  his  sheep  wandering  in 
what  had  appeared  to  him  to  be  perilous  pastures.  With 
a  saintly  look  upon  his  worn  countenance,  which  he  did 
not  in  the  least  affect,  he  followed  the  maiden,  as  she 
explained  to  him  the  making  of  a  gilt  ground  and  the 
laying  in  of  a  silver  border. 

-\\hence  does  my  child  get  the  gilt  and  silver?" 
Caspar  saw  that  question  asking  itself  upon  the  Barbe's 
lips,  and  he  spoke  it. 

Alke  blushed  with  her  fresh  beauty,  as  she  thought  of  a 
certain  youth  whom  she  had  met  as  a  shepherd  boy  in  the 
fields  near  the  foot-hills. 

The  Barbe*   feared  that  he  had  exceeded  the  liberty 


A    WALDENSIAN  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE.      197 

involved  in  the  discharge  of  his  pastoral  duties  in  creat- 
ing an  atmosphere  of  curiosity,  and  he  was  relieved  when 
she  did  not  answer,  but  instead,  pursued  her  way  in  mak- 
ing clear  to  his  wondering  eye  the  secrets  of  such  ex- 
quisite calligraphy. 

"  The  printing-press,"  said  the  Barbe,  "  will  make  you 
the  last  of  the  race  of  scribes  and  illuminators." 

"  It  will  never  destroy  the  beauty  of  ornamentation  by 
hand,  I  well  believe.  The  organ  has  not  taken  any  charm 
from  the  singing  of  a  melodious  voice."  She  answered 
with  a  song  in  every  word  which  she  spoke. 

"  'T  is  a  large  world.  Perhaps  there  is  room  enough 
within  it  for  everything  except  a  monk." 

This  last  Alke  knew  was  directed  against  her  furnish- 
ing to  a  monastery  anything  so  desirable  as  illuminations. 
But  genuine  love  of  art,  fear  of  want,  and  the  idea 
of  "  spoiling  the  Egyptians,"  by  obtaining  money  and 
by  placing  in  monkish  hands  an  illumination  full  of  the 
reforming  zeal  and  ideal,  kept  Alke  on  her  feet,  while 
this  wave  of  pastoral  opposition  passed  over  her. 

"  The  older  writing  beneath,  on  this  sheet,  is  more  in- 
teresting to  you  than  the  new,"  said  he,  as  she  showed 
him  a  palimpsest,  on  which  the  ancient  Latin  lines  were 
fairly  clear,  lying  beneath  the  newly  inscribed  lines  of  a 
homily  which  perpetuated  the  story  of  Saint  Benedict  un- 
tying by  a  word  the  cords  which  bound  the  Arian  Goth, 
Zalla. 

"  Ah  t  "  said  Caspar,  who  happened  near  for  a  moment, 
"  you  can  see  it  all  in  that  palimpsest.  Old  and  uncon- 
querable Rome  looks  out  at  us  to-day  from  beneath  the 
incredible  fancies  of  modern  ecclesiastical  Rome.  See 
the  ancient  uncials." 

"  But,"  said  the  Barbe",  who  had  no  patience  with  the 
Renaissance  alone,  "  old  Rome  was  pagan,  and  is  pagan 
yet." 

"  Modern  Rome  —  the  Rome  which   rules  now  —  is 


198  J/0.VA-  A\D 

superstitious.  What  we  need  in  the  world,  first  and  above 
all  else,  is  freedom.  These  visits  to  old  Rome,  by  the 
human  mind,  made  by  way  of  manuscripts  and  monu- 
ments, make  the  soul  feel  how  great  and  free  was  man 
before  the  Church  had  enslaved  him.  They  lead  on  to 
the  wise  suspicion  that  the  human  mind  might  get  on 
again,  with  some  issue  of  success,  without  such  a  thing  as 
a  Pope.  Europe  knows  now  that  a  Christianity  no  better 
than  paganism  is  much  worse;  that  a  Pope  who  is  only 
a  spiritual  Caesar  cannot  be  so  valuable  to  the  world  as  a 
Caesar." 

'•  Alas  ! "  said  the  Barbe,  fearing,  as  have  many  since 

iv,  the  healthful  rationalism  which  lies  at  the  heart 

of  all  thorough  reformation,  and  yet  not  sure  to  grasp  a 

remedy  for  such  fear,  "  old  Rome  will  not  free  mankind 

from  new  Rome.     A  Caesar  is  worse  than  the  Pope." 

\  •>.'  i  |  the  reply,  ''nay!  Freedom  comes  by 
the  truth.  The  truth  shall  make  men  free.  But  the  dis- 
covery of  so  great  a  past  beneath  such  a  hard  and  intol- 
erant present  as  is  ours,  is  the  truth  with  which  to  begin. 
It  makes  us  free  from  the  notion  that  God  is  confined  to 
ivs  of  the  papacy.  The  reason  of  man  is  liberated, 
and  there  will  be  great  changes." 

The  fresh  evening  air  fanned  the  cheeks  of  Alke ;  and 
her  bright  eyes  were  abysmal  with  a  mysterious  glory,  as 
she  tried  to  disengage  the  Barb£  from  his  thoughts  as  he 
stood  there,  his  eyes  resting  upon  two  uncial  letters, 
which  she  had  made  in  imitation  of  those  of  the  sixth 
century,  when  the  patient  calligrapher  had  not  yet  surren- 
dered to  the  speedier  tachygrapher  with  his  easy  minus- 
cule. His  mind,  however,  did  not  cease  pursuing  through 
endless  ramifications  the  vitalizing  idea,  with  the  expres- 
sion of  which  Caspar  had  left  him,  until  Alke  had  placed 
befoie  him  a  richly  embellished  copy  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer. 

i  1  i  eyes  were   two  fountains  of  joy.     ••  I  would  that 


A    WALDENSIAN  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE.      199 

you  could  sell  that  to  any  monastery,"  he  said  at  once. 
"  The  ignorant  mumbling  of  syllables  which  they  do  not 
understand  might  cease,  if  every  monk  were  bound  to 
read  from  this  parchment  as  he  prayed." 

Alke  had  reserved  this  precious  leaf  for  her  pastor ; 
and  now  that  he  had  confessed  such  extraordinary  de- 
light over  it,  she  herself  was  overjoyed.  Only  one  thing 
she  desired  to  do.  The  Barbe"  had  asked  to  see  her  at 
her  work»  Study  of  Virgil,  and  of  that  nature  which 
Virgil  had  interpreted  to  her,  under  the  all-pervading 
idea  of  the  Fatherhood  of  God  which  had  possessed  her 
life,  had  led  her  to  feel  —  what  now  she  even  attempted 
to  realize  —  a  desire  to  make  others  conscious  of  the 
significance  of  the  growing  corn,  as  a  part  of  that  revela- 
tion of  the  Divine  Fatherhood,  which,  with  her  Greek 
temper,  she  beheld  in  a  half-pantheistic  way  in  the  field 
near  by. 

The  Barbe"  was  soon  sitting  by  her  side  ;  and  as  in  deep 
thought  he  stroked  the  long  beard  which  Alke  knew  he 
had  suffered  to  grow  because  the  priests  shaved  instead, 
the  light  came  in  over  the  shoulders  upon  which  lay  the 
sunny  hair,  and  falling  on  the  parchment,  played  with 
the  purple  background  upon  which  were  particles  of  bur- 
nished gold.  The  hand  which  had  so  often  by  day 
gathered  sticks  at  the  foot-hills,  and  the  fingers  which  at 
eventide  had  pushed  their  loving  way  through  the  thick 
locks  of  Gaspar  Perrin,  seemed  instinct  with  power  and 
grace,  as  she  retouched  the  parchment.  Alke  had  lifted 
many  heavy  burdens,  —  the  prominence  of  the  wrist-bone 
showed  the  Barbe  how  overtasked  her  youth  had  been,  — 
but  her  arm  now  appeared  to  possess  all  possible  love- 
liness, as  she  placed  her  hand  upon  the  unornamented 
portion  of  the  parchment,  or  found  the  right  color  near 
it.  Saucepans  and  bowls  made  a  background  of  sug- 
gestive realism  for  the  no  less  real  cuttle-fish  powder 
with  which  she  had  nibbed  the  manuscript,  her  silver- 


200  MO.\A'  .L\D  KNIGHT. 

pointed  brass  pencil  which  had  been  "brought  from  Venice, 
plaster  made  ready  for  the  ground  of  gold,  the  slab  of 
porphyry  on  which  she  had  ground  her  Greek  green, 
dragon's  blood,  and  saffron,  which  being  covered  now 
with  water,  and  near  at  hand,  were  ready  to  be  trans- 
formed into  a  likeness  unto  the  sheaf  of  corn,  which  also 
with  a  red  blossom  stood  before  her. 

As  the  \Yaldensian  maiden,  in  the  presence  of  her 
shepherd  and  friend,  drew  the  lines  and  added  the  col- 
iiich  in  the  form  of  flowers  or  heads  of  corn  em- 
bellished the  words  '•  ( )i  R  l"\i  HI  K,"  the  Barbe  concluded 
that  in  spite  of  all  that  he  had  feared  of  the  danger  to  which 
such  a  rare  soul  was  exposed,  in  creating  beautiful  pages 
for  the  eyes  of  the  monks,  he  ought  to  say  something  in 
praise  of  what  he  saw  while  she  abstractedly  painted 
and  sang,  tone  and  color  vying  each  with  the  other  in 
harmony. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

MAIDEN   AND   NOVICE. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress,  — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray,  — 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

BRYANT. 

S  is  at  least  beautiful,"  said  the  Barbe"  reluc- 
tantly,  as  he  took  up  a  piece  of  parchment  on 
which  the  girlish  hand  had  copied  the  sentence,  "The 
trees  of  the  field  shall  clap  their  hands."  Around  and 
within  these  words  she  had  so  arranged  the  coniferous 
trees  that  they  appeared  to  wave  with  joy  under  the 
influence  of  the  mountain  winds  ;  while  below  them  were 
broad  beeches,  half  lucent  with  a  gentle  dawn,  and 
heavily  laden  chestnuts  in  whose  branches  played  broken 
lights  and  shadows. 

"  None  of  the  saints  are  to  be  found  in  my  collection ; 
but  I  do  paint  the  holy  apostles." 

"  Alas,  I  must  say,  even  to  you,  Alke,  have  a  care  ! " 
The  Barb£  repeated  the  injunction.  "  Have  a  care,  my 
child,  —  whom  I  can  no  longer  call  my  lamb,  as  I  used 
to  do,  —  have  a  care,  lest  in  painting  even  them  you 
continue  the  superstitions  about  them  by  your  art." 

"  Here  is  the  holy  apostle  John,"  said  Alke,  hesitantly, 


202  .1/0.VA-  AXD   A'MG/fT. 

as  she  brought  forth  a  richly  toned  page  from  an  old 
n  case  which  was  a  relic  of  other  d 

"Of  course  you  cannot  sell  such  pictures  as  this  to  the 
monks.  I  like  this  picture  of  Saint  John.  He  is  dressed 
like  a  HarlxV'  remarked  the  Waldensian  minister,  with  a 
sort  of  pious  and  bigoted  glee ;  "  he  is  one  of  us.  We 
belong,  as  you  know,  Alke,  to  an  early  age." 

"  I  have  been  taught  that  ours  is  the  Church  of  the 
Apostles.  I  know  that  the  Holy  Church  is  not  holy," 
said  Alke.  with  a  religious  naivete  quite  unappreciated 
by  the  Barb£,  who  was  looking  upon  the  picture. 

There  was  something  so  intelligently  serene  and  yet  so 
passionate  in  the  face  of  the  apostle,  that  daspar,  who 
had  been  most  careful  to  note  the  physical  and  mental 
development  of  this  precocious  child,  found  a  shadow 
inclining  over  his  soul. 

He  was  silent  as  he  thought :  "  No  one  could  have 
made  those  eyes,  and  put  the  quiver  of  life  within  those 
•ips,  without  a  feeling,  profound  and  comprehensive,  of 
what  is  in  man's  life  and  woman's  life.  Alke  —  my  baby- 
girl  no  longer! — Alke  is  growing  toward  womanhood. 
The  problem  of  life,  —  its  fire,  its  frost,  its  terrestrial  and 
celestial  energies,  —  all  the  problem  of  saint  and  sinner 
has  just  recently  opened  its  significance  unto  her.  My 
little  child  has  already  put  the  history  of  the  eating  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge  in  the  face  of  the  most  blessed 
apostle." 

par   had  not  seen  Alke's  picture  of  Mary 
dalene,  and  it  was  perhaps  well.     He  felt  the  warm  tears 
hanging  upon  his  eyelids;  but  through  them,  with  the 
Barbe,  he  was  soon  looking  at  another  picture. 

The  Barb6  was  startled.  Caspar  was  as  serious  in  his 
thought  as  he  was  calm  in  his  bearing.  The  young  artist 
had  transfixed  their  questions  and  emotions  with  her 
illumination.  It  was  at  once  a  commentary  and  a  reve- 
lation. There  on  the  piece  of  parchment,  which  bore 


MAIDEN  AND  NOVICE.  203 

on  the  other  side  the  fading  memory  of  a  drawing  which 
had  long  ago  been  made  to  perpetuate  an  improbable 
Romish  legend,  the  Waldensian  girl  had  painted  sober 
but  inspiring  history.  It  was  a  martyrdom,  the  burning 
of  a  heretic. 

The  fire  seemed  to  consume  the  very  parchment. 
Every  color  was  livid  with  the  heat.  It  trembled  and 
leaped,  and  twisted  its  wrathful  flames  upon  a  rock, 
which  was  portrayed  with  such  powerful  realism  as  to 
evoke  from  the  Barbe  the  exclamation :  "  The  rock  of 
Mentoules  !  the  rock  of  Mentoules  !  " 

Then  the  illumination  silenced  him.  Arrows  and 
javelins  appeared  instinct  with  murderous  intent,  as  they 
lay  within  reach  of  the  lambent  flames.  The  face  of  the 
persecuting  prior,  who  stood  by,  was  a  portrait  of  satanic 
hate  ;  and  the  suggestion  of  armed  bands  of  cruel  men 
crowded  the  pictured  scene  with  resounding  footsteps. 
Out  of  the  rising,  living  pyramid  of  fire  looked  a  scorched 
face. 

"  It  is  Louis,  Louis,  my  own  brother  !  "  ejaculated  the 
Barbe.  "  Curses  upon  them  that  burned  him  !  Nay, 
nay  !  "  —  the  Barb£  was  looking  into  the  soft,  clear  eyes 
of  Alke,  —  "  nay,  nay  !  God  counted  my  brother  Louis 
worthy  of  martyrdom,  and  you  have  painted  the 
hour  —  " 

"The  hour  of  coronation,"  said  Caspar,  who  saw  that 
the  Barb£  was  busy  wiping  the  fast-flowing  tears  from  his 
cheeks. 

From  that  hour  the  minister  was  entirely  reconciled 
to  Alke's  art;  though  once  afterward,  having  been  led 
by  her  to  read  Dante's  "  Purgatorio,"  he  ventured  to 
call  her  attention  to  the  fact  that  of  the  two  illumi- 
nators whom  he  celebrates,  one  of  them  is  in  the  state  of 
purgatory.  He  never  again,  however,  sought  to  inquire 
how  far  she  had  wandered  from  his  own  religious  opinions 
in  making  this  art  supply  the  necessities  of  her  father's 


20J  MO.YA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

home.  If  he  had  inquired  further,  he  might  have  dis- 
covered that  at  that  hour  she  was  desirous  to  be  at  work 
finishing  the  manuscript,  and  that  she  had  been  per- 
suaded and  enabled  to  attempt  it  through  the  machi- 
nations of  a  priest  who,  though  thirty  miles  away,  had 
heard  of  her  work. 

This  was  the  story :  A  brother  in  the  monastery  of 
Turin  had,  a  year  before,  been  fortunate  enough  to  be 
passing  through  the  town  of  I~i  Torre,  upon  an  errand 
that  permitted  the  novice  who  was  his  companion  to 
find  a  scrap  of  parchment  which,  on  presentation  at  the 
1  house  of  the  Capuchins,  proved  to  have  been 
freshly  colored  with  a  dye  resembling  Tynan  purple. 
Every  man  in  the  scriptorium  partook  of  the  excitement 
which  it  roused.  Could  it  be  possible  that  the  secret  of 
making  a  dye  which  in  the  days  of  Charlemagne  made 
the  parchments  so  proper  a  background  for  golden  let- 
ters, had  been  recovered  ?  Who  possessed  the  precious 
secret  ?  Besides,  here,  upon  this  trifling  scrap,  were 
certain  letters,  placed  there  with  almost  perfect  art ! 
They  composed  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  priests,  "  it  is  a  Waldensian's 
work." 

"I  saw  a  maiden  of  great  beauty  drop  it  in  the  street," 
was  the  information  which  the  novice  of  Turin  finally 
yielded  to  the  authorities. 

he  secret  shall  be  ours,"  were  the  swiftly  uttered 
words  in  reply. 

Before  a  month  had  gone,  this  very  novice,  properly 
instructed,  had  been  placed  under  the  priest  of  La 
Torre,  and  in  the  clothes  of  a  peasant's  son  had  obeyed 
the  priest  in  going  forth  morning  after  morning  to  the 
mountain-side,  until  he  had  found  Alke  tending  the  goats. 
With  consummate  care,  and  as  the  result  of  desirable 
rewards,  such  as  appealed  to  this  maiden's  power  which 
was  thirsty  for  opportunities,  he  had  found  out  that  her 


MAIDEN  AND  NOVICE.  205 

father  Caspar  Perrin  had  once  been  a  printer  in  Venice, 
and  knew  the  secret  of  empurpling  parchment,  and  that 
she  often  illuminated  the  colored  material.  His  talk 
opened  a  new  world  of  hope  before  Alke. 

Very  soon  through  this  youth,  who  so  excellently  exe- 
cuted the  schemes  of  these  authorities,  the  priest  of  La 
Torre  had  made  purchases  sufficient  to  justify  the  opinion 
of  his  friends  and  that  of  the  neighboring  monastery  of 
Turin  that  the  safety  of  Caspar  Perrin  was  desirable.  It 
was  agreed  that  in  no  event  should  his  life  be  imperilled 
until  this  secret  should  be  found  out ;  and  more  espe- 
cially was  it  understood  that  the  girl,  who  had  been  an 
artist  even  in  childhood,  should  be  drawn  by  every 
politic  measure  into  the  service  of  empurpling  and 
illuminating  parchments  for  the  monastery. 

"  She  shall  be  ours,  —  she  and  her  secret  shall  be 
ours  !  "  swore  the  priest  in  charge  of  the  scriptorium. 

"Oh,  if  only  I  could  buy  parchment !  "  said  Alke,  one 
day,  in  the  hearing  of  this  disguised  novice,  who  had 
paused  with  a  bundle  of  fagots  at  his  side  to  speak  with 
her.  He  had  been  taught  to  await  the  mention  of  that 
necessity. 

"  Would  you  like  to  make  some  coins  by  painting  on 
some  new  parchment  ?"  was  the  studied  inquiry. 

Alke's  innocent  eyes  brightened.  It  had  been  a 
winter  of  sorrowful  hunger,  and  Alke  knew  that  the 
larder  was  empty.  The  father  stood  before  this  heroic 
maiden  in  all  his  gaunt  and  gracious  weakness,  as  she 
attempted  to  speak. 

"  I  could  —  " 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  keep  the  tears  out  of 
sight ;  and  they  meant  so  much  more  than  words  could 
mean  to  him,  that  the  young  Capuchin  felt  a  strange 
twinge  of  joyous  pain  in  his  heart. 

"  I  know  where  we  may  find  a  small  missal,  which 
you  could  make  much  more  beautiful.  It  is  not  far 


206  .V(WAT  AND  KNIGHT. 

away;  if  you  will  illuminate  it,  you  shall  have  many 
coins." 

This  missal  had  been  in  Alke's  hands  from  that  day; 
and  now  the  last  lovely  picture  had  been  completed.  It 
lay  in  the  oaken  chest,  and  it  was  the  only  work  of  Alke 
which  the  devout  Barbe  did  not  see. 

It  seemed  sufficient  to  both  Alke  and  her  father  that 
the  kindly  pastor  had  been  so  easily  reconciled  to  her 
art  by  the  sight  of  the  painting  which  he  had  just 
looked  upon.  Alke  and  Caspar  were  able  to  keep  a 
secret  which  was  assuredly  innocent  enough,  and  which 
yielded  such  comfort  in  mitigating  the  sorrows  of  their 
poverty. 

"That  missal,"  said  the  happy  child  to  her  father, 
when  he  seemed  sad  because  she  worked  so  diligently 
and  became  so  weary,  —  "that  missal  will  help  us  to  keep 
all  the  books  which  you  brought  from  Venice."  Then 
Caspar  would  look  proudly  upon  her  and  upon  the 
books,  to  the  list  of  which  Aldus  and  his  son  had  con- 
tributed additions  from  time  to  time,  all  of  which  he  had 
been  compelled  to  think  of  selling. 

For  the  Barb£  an  hour  of  sorrowful  recollection  had 
come  and  gone.  It  had,  however,  quickened  his  sense 
of  ministerial  responsibility.  His  mind  was  full  of  plans 
for  the  day  or  night  of  communion.  He  had  been 
compelled  to  fix  upon  the  midnight  hour. 

"Our  meeting  shall  occur  at  midnight,"  said  he  to 
the  chief  members  of  the  fraternity,  as  they  loved  to  call 
their  simple  organization,  who  had  just  come  to  consult 
with  the  Barb£.  There  was  a  firm  tone  of  commanding 
courage  in  the  voice,  as  he  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
youthful  assistant  with  whom  he  always  made  his  visita- 
tions. The  members  of  the  fraternity  retired. 

"  Perhaps  our  joy  on  this  birthday  will  end  in  mourn- 
ing," ventured  the  young  man. 

••  •  It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning  than  to 


MAIDEN  AND   NOVICE.  2O? 

the  house  of  feasting,'  "  replied  the  elder,  as  they  started 
together  toward  the  simple  repast  which  in  Caspar's 
home  made  the  evening  meal. 

Holiday  that  it  was,  and  happy  as  the  friendly  neigh- 
bors had  seemed  throughout  the  day,  that  evening  meal 
was  itself  a  tender,  loving  communion  service.  It  was 
the  Waldensian  eucharistic  reminiscence  of  apostolic 
times. 

"Benedicte,  Kyrie  eleison,  Christe  eleison,  Kyrie 
eleison,  Pater  noster,"  broke  forth  the  rich  voice  of  the 
Barbe,  as  they  were  seated  at  the  table. 

Alke's  golden  head  was  bowed ;  but  the  devil-like 
eyes  of  a  monk  who  gazed  in  upon  them  from  his 
place  of  hiding  without,  saw  that  no  one  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  and  that  the  room  was  bare  of  images. 

"  God,  even  our  God,  who  provided  food  for  His 
prophets  and  feedeth  His  children  with  manna,  bless  our 
meal  and  this  reunion!"  said  the  devout  Caspar ;  and 
he  added,  "  In  nominis  Patris  et  Filii  et  Spiritus  Sancti. 
Amen." 

The  cruel  eyes  of  the  stout  monk  who  had  concealed 
himself  in  the  bushes  near  the  open  window,  might  then 
have  beheld  them  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  but  for 
the  fact  that  in  his  hiding-place  he  was  trying  to  com- 
plete his  plan  for  the  killing  of  the  Barbe,  for  whose 
noble  heart  he  had  a  poisoned  dagger. 

There  was  but  one  topic  at  the  table  of  this  militant 
Waldensian,  and  Caspar  was  loquacious. 

"  It  is  the  same  with  us  as  it  was  with  our  ancestors,  — 
the  same  foe,  the  same  fight.  We  —  God  be  thanked  ! 
—  are  surer  of  our  ground.  The  Pope  still  pretends 
himself  to  be  more  than  man,  and  only  less  than  God 
Himself.  Men  believe  it  only  where  they  cannot  read 
God's  Word ;  for  the  Scriptures  say  not  that  the  Pope 
should  rule  over  men  and  kingdoms.  Only  one  is  master, 
and  that  is  Jesus  Christ.  So  long  as  the  priest  anoints 


208  .J/aVA-  A.  YD   K\IGHT, 


the  king,  the  Church  will  be  tyrannical  and  full  of  abomi- 
nation. The  Church  neglects  her  righteous  duties  in  not 
blessing  the  souls  of  men,  and  becomes  corrupt  in  the 
attempt  to  control  nations.  Ours  it  is  to  oppose  by  life 
and  doctrine,  not  the  right,  but  the  wrong  which  the 
priests  smile  upon  and  bless." 

1  here  is  nothing  right  in  the  Church.     The  Church 
is  beyond  remedy.    Priestcraft  is  wholly  evil.    The  mon 
asteries  are   the   hiding-places  of  iniquity,"   urged  the 
more  radical  and  dogmatic  Barb£,  who  detected  in 
I'.ir  a  feeling  of  tolerance  toward  the  monks  of  Turin 
which  he  could  not  allow  to  go  uncorrected. 

'•  There  are  yet  some  benefits  which  may  come  to  us," 
said  Caspar,  "even  from  the  monasteries.  They  have 
kept  the  manuscripts  of  other  days,  and  have  often  been 
the  only  hope  of  learning." 

"They  are  not  now,"  said  the  Barb£,  with  earnestness. 
"  Learning  such  as  yours  has  come  into  the  world  in 
spUe  of  monkish  opposition,  not  by  the  help  of  abbeys 
and  bishops.  Besides,  religion  is  greater  than  learning. 
I  would  rejoice  to  see  yonder  monastery  in  flames." 

The  concealed  monk  without  gnashed  his  teeth  in  his 
rage.  Caspar  within  hesitated  to  speak,  because  he  was 
not  quite  sure  but  that  the  Virgil  manuscript  which  Eras- 
mus sought  at  Turin  had  come  to  La  Torre.  He  could  not 
think  of  the  walls  of  a  scriptorium  in  flames.  The  thought 
of  the  manuscript  kept  him  silent. 

The  monk  outside  had  made  a  favorable  construction 
of  Caspar's  silence,  and  had  found  himself  restless  at 
eavesdropping  when  he  considered  the  heresies  of  the 
Barbe.  "  Surely,"  thought  he,  "  the  father  of  the  girl 
is  not  heretical."  And  into  the  shade  he  ran  until  he 
had  found  the  leader  of  his  fellow-conspirators,  whom  he 
persuaded  to  spare  Caspar's  cottage,  which  they  had 
planned  to  burn  over  the  Barbe's  head. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  the  monk  left  the  bushes  near 


MAIDEN  AND  NOVICE.  2OQ 

the  window,  when  Caspar  explained  the  true  reason  for 
his  interest  in  the  monastic  institutions  in  that  vicinity. 
He  told  the  Barbe  of  the  visit  of  Erasmus ;  and  forthwith, 
as  he  remembered  Erasmus  sympathizing  with  him  when 
he  had  spoken  of  the  loss  of  his  boy,  he  surpassed  all 
that  the  good  pastor  had  said  in  his  expressions  of  violent 
heresy. 

"  They  count  us  more  dangerous  than  Saracens ;  and 
the  cruelty  which  they  show  in  the  murdering  of  loyal 
men  is  more  malignant  than  that  with  which  they  kill 
Turks.  Never  were  there  such  base,  bloodthirsty  knaves 
as  the  Dominicans ;  nothing  is  so  holy  to  a  Capuchin  as 
a  massacre.  And  yet  —  and  yet  I  shall  have  that  manu- 
script of  Virgil." 

This  he  said,  feeling  that  his  orthodox  hatred  of  priestly 
crime  was  always  likely  to  seem  to  be  waning  at  the 
remembrance  of  Aldus  and  that  manuscript  in  the 
scriptorium. 

"  My  brother  may  lose  his  soul  in  trifling  for  a  fragment 
of  ancient  and  corrupt  Rome,"  said  the  Barbe",  solemnly. 

"  I  shall  never  lose  it  to  the  modern  and  more  corrupt 
Rome,"  was  the  answer. 

"  No,  Caspar ;  you  have  been  true.  Your  household 
knows  all  the  story.  You  are  honestly  trying  to  be  a 
Waldensia'n  and  an  Erasmian." 

"  Never  !  "  cried  out  Caspar.  "  Erasmus  is  afraid. 
Am  I  ?  "  and  the  scarred  wrists,  which  bore  their  awful 
testimony,  were  immediately  thrust  before  the  Barbe 's 
eyes.  "  I  fear  nothing,  but  being  untrue  to  God  and  the 
holy  Scriptures." 

"  The  holy  Scriptures  say,  '  Seek  first  the  kingdom  of 
God,  and  all  these  things  shall  be  added.'  You  shall 
get  the  manuscript  for  the  cause  of  learning,  when  the 
cause  of  religion  shall  have  conquered  and  prostrated  the 
walls  of  these  monasteries  in  the  dust.  The  kingdom 
of  God  on  earth  will  bring  every  other  righteous  sov- 

VOL.  I  — 14 


210  >,VA-  AND  KNIGHT. 

ereignty  along  with  it.      It  will  not  come  as   Erasmus 
thinks—" 

"  How?  "  interjected  Gaspar. 

Not  under  the  wing  of  the  kingdom  of  culture,"  re- 
plied the  Barbe\  "  It  will  come  in  its  own  triumph ;  and 
it  will  turn  and  overturn  all  else,  until,  with  its  establish- 
ment, these  kingdoms  of  freedom  and  culture  shall  be 
safely  builded  in  iu  n 

••  1  told  1  r.i>m:;>  u  much,"  said  the  charmed  Gaspar, 
as  he  saw  the  eloquent  lips  of  ;  pause. 

"  The  contest  is  upon  us.  May  God  make  us  strong  ! 
The  world  is  not  able  to  use  a  manuscript  of  Virgil 
worthily,  until  it  has  read  without  a  tremor  the  manuscript 
of  Saint  Paul  the  Apostle.  To  accomplish  this  means 
the  overthrow  of  the  kingdom  of  darkness  by  the  king- 
dom of  light.  Jesus  Christ,  not  Virgil,  is  the  Light  of 
the  world.  All  genuine  kingdoms  are  comprehended 
under  the  kingdom  of  Christ  the  Lord." 

the  Barb£  with  shining  face  turned  toward  Alke, 
the  red  glow  of  evening  shone  upon  his  gray  dress  ;  and 
the  maiden's  eyes  were  restless  enough  in  that  expectant 
air,  as  she  thought  of  the  days  immediately  to  come,  and 
reflected  that  if  one  of  them  proved  true  to  her  hope,  be- 
fore the  Barb£  should  leave  their  affrighted  community, 
she  herself,  according  to  the  word  of  the  young  peasant 
shepherd,  would  have  in  her  own  hands  the  manuscript 
of  Virgil. 

"It  is  an  outrageous  law  which  would  prevent  us  from 
meeting  together  and  discussing  the  Catholic  faith,"  said 
Gaspar.  "  How  gladly  do  the  spies  of  Rome  run  to  the 
confessors  and  inform  their  prelates  of  our  conferences  ! 
Doubtless  at  this  hour  you  are  watched." 

"  I  escaped  a  band  of  monks  near  the  opening  of  the 
valley.  Brutal  faces  had  they,  yet  not  so  brutal  as  the 
faces  of  some  who  made  the  doctrines  which  we  cannot 
obey  !  "  answered  the  Barb£. 


MAIDEN  AND  NOVICE.  211 

"  Brutes  rule  us!"  said  Caspar;  "and  however  wor- 
thy the  children  of  heretics  may  be,  they  may  not  hold 
office  until  the  second  generation  be  passed.  Our  homes 
are  kept  pure,  and  prayers  arise  continually  from  house- 
holds which  may  be  demolished  at  any  time  for  shelter- 
ing a  heretic.  Even  if  I  know  a  heretic,  —  a  man  who 
insists  upon  the  right  to  his  own  soul,  —  and  if  I  do  not 
report  my  criminal  knowledge  to  the  authorities,  it  is 
likely  to  mean  banishment  for  me.  And  yet  I  trust 
God  —  " 

"  And  so  does  Alke  ?  " 

The  fair  face  smiled ;  and  eyes  which  looked  fearlessly 
toward  heaven  made  sufficient  answer  to  the  Barbe. 

As  they  arose  from  the  table,  about  which  such  light- 
ning-like forces  had  been  playing,  the  first  word  which 
escaped  the  lips  of  the  Barb£  was,  "  Peace  !  "  and  in 
tones  of  musical  praise  there  followed  the  words  of  the 
Revelation  :  "  Glory,  wisdom,  thanksgiving,  honor,  power, 
and  might  be  to  our  God  forever  and  ever." 

No  monkish  embellishment  could  have  added  beauty 
or  dignity  to  the  appearance  of  this  simple  man  of  God 
when  he  prayed  :  "  May  God  reward  with  plenitude  and 
bless  with  abundance  those  who  have  been  our  blessing 
and  joy ;  and  having  fed  our  bodies,  may  God  feed  our 
souls.  May  God  be  our  companion,  and  may  we  be  with 
Him  through  eternity." 

Gaspar  and  Alke  said,  "  Amen." 

There  they  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence,  the  Barb£ 
holding  aloft  the  hands  of  Alke  and  her  father,  which 
were  joined  to  his,  while  he  whispered  another  prayer. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

HOLY    COMMUN 

Hear,  Father,  hear  Thy  faint,  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee  from  the  desert  and  the  rock  ; 
While  those  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold ; 
And  the  broad,  goodly  land*  with  pleasant  airs 
That  nurse  the  grape  and  wave  the  grain,  are  theirs. 

BRYANT. 

FOR  two  hours  before  midnight  the  disguised  monk, 
who  had  left  his  priestly  habit  in  the  convent 
of  La  Torre,  was  listening  to  the  sounds  of  muffled 
voices  which  proceeded  from  a  point  far  up  the  side  of 
one  of  the  mountains  which  guard  the  approaches  of  the 
valley  of  Angrogna.  Since  noontide  he  had  been  toiling 
upward,  seeking  the  opening  to  the  cavern  in  which  the 
papal  party  rightly  surmised  that  the  Waldensians  held 
their  meetings,  wondering  meanwhile  at  the  fierce  cour- 
age of  a  rebellious  fanaticism  which  could  lead  men, 
women,  and  children  to  a  spot,  as  yet  undiscovered  by 
him,  in  which  they  could  bid  defiance  to  bishops  and 
armies.  He  was  now  assured  that  the  sounds  which  had 
floated  to  him  within  the  last  two  hours  came  from  a 
height  immediately  above  him  ;  and  he  had  abundant 
reason  for  the  suspicion  that  the  mountaineers  were 
gathering  loose  stones,  placing  them  near  the  mouth  of 


HOLY  COMMUNION. 


2I3 


the  cavern,  from  which,  at  any  moment  desired,  they 
might  hurl  them  upon  their  foes  below. 

Religious  persecution  has,  in  all  ages,  made  most  curi- 
ous alliances.  Certain  well-known  architectural  remains 
have  been  aptly  described  as  "  half  church  of  God,  half 
fortress  'gainst  the  Scot."  To  this  class  of  memorials 
would  have  belonged  that  altar-like  creation  which,  under 
the  hands  of  two  of  the  most  stalwart  of  the  Waldensians, 
—  Claude  Rodan  and  Hyppolite  Meane,  —  was  rising  at 
one  end  of  the  huge  cave. 

Troubled  as  was  the  exploring  monk  below  them  to 
find  a  path  to  that  opening  which  the  mountaineers  had 
been  entering  and  re-entering  for  two  hours  and  more, 
these  men  had  marked  its  way  from  the  adjoining  moun- 
tain, so  that,  approaching  it  from  above,  any  one  of  the 
Waldensians,  who  understood  the  language  of  the  rocks 
placed  in  position  on  the  route,  should  not  lose  it  by  a 
footstep. 

The  mountaineers  now  waited  at  the  opening  of  the 
cave  for  their  companions.  The  last  stone  had  been  car- 
ried within  ;  and  there,  inside  a  smaller  but  high-arched 
enclosure  within  the  expansive  cavern,  it  stood,  —  a  com- 
munion-table, which  in  an  instant  could  be  transformed 
into  an  armory  of  weapons  such  as  no  ordinary  band  of 
Dominicans  or  Capuchins  could  withstand,  as  these  mis- 
siles should  be  thrown  to  the  roadway  below.  This  latter 
fact  the  concealed  monk  of  Turin  had  known  never  so 
well  as  a  few  minutes  before,  when  a  single  rock,  not 
larger  than  his  own  head,  had  slipped  from  the  grasp  of 
one  of  these  mountaineers  above  him,  and  sped  like  a 
fateful  thunderbolt,  carrying  dust  and  broken  fragments 
of  dead  branches  with  it  into  the  gorge  beneath. 

"  Heresy  has  a  most  frightful  energy,"  said  his  mutter- 
ing lips ;  and  he  wished  himself  back  in  the  Capuchin 
monastery. 

By  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  the  path  along  which  the 


214  AfOAA'  ,L\7>   KX1GHT. 

bouquetin  walked  with  steady  but  careful  step,  had  be- 
come a  highway  for  men  and  women,  young  and  old, 
who  from  Angrogna,  Brackcrastro,  Lucerna,  and  even 
Bobbio  beyond  the  Felice,  trod  on,  with  hearts  beating 
with  emotions  of  worship  and  valor,  toward  that  com- 
munion. The  guiding  wisdom  of  properly  placed  rocks 
on  the  way  had  xivcd  them  from  the 'abysses. 

••  Never  did  a  conquering  host  come  back  from  a  field, 
carrying  the  weapons  of  their  enemies,  with  more  heroic 
joy  than  is  yours  even  now,"  said  Caspar  Pen-in  to  an 
old  man,  who  sat  by  the  pathway  upon  which  he  had 
fallen  from  exhaustion.  Alke,  whose  tenderness  had  al- 
ready begun  its  miimtry  in  wiping  the  blood  from  his 
forehead,  which  had  been  lacerated  as  he  staggered 
against  the  sharp  stones,  sat  with  the  aged  man  for  a 
moment,  and  listened  as  he  described  the  difficulty  with 
which  he  had  made  this  much  of  his  pilgrimage  to  the 
new  shrine.  Her  luxuriant  hair  was  like  a  rich  morning, 
falling  often  upon  the  white  head  of  the  old  man  as  she 
listened  to  his  whispers.  He  seemed  to  feel,  as  he  smiled 
his  gratitude,  that  the  sun  had  indeed  gone  down  with 
him,  and  only  the  silver  moonlight  of  life,  bright  however 
as  that  moonlight  which  now  illuminated  the  scene,  was 
left. 

"  Oh,  you  are  Caspar  Perrin's  daughter  !  You  are  the 
angel  of  the  dawn,"  he  said,  when,  in  unwonted  brilliance, 
the  moon  irradiated  the  edges  of  the  cloud  and  burst 
forth  again  to  glorify  them  both.  And  then  he  arose,  and 
as  if  supported  by  an  enthusiasm  of  which  her  young  eyes 
were  fountains,  he  trudged  noiselessly  on.  He  was  an 
aged  Barb£,  who  had  come,  as  he  believed,  to  take  his 
last  communion. 

One  by  one,  they  entered  the  place  of  worship.  An 
opening  in  the  rocks  far  up  on  the  side  of  the  smaller 
chamber  allowed  entrance  between  its  mighty  edges 
for  a  rift  of  light.  Omnipotence  had  pierced  the  hard 


HOLY  COMMUNION.  215 

brown  texture  of  the  mountain ;  and  through  the  slight 
aperture  glowed  the  weird  and  solemn  light.  At  first  the 
radiance  faltered  upon  the  rocky  edges  of  the  altar-table. 
Then  the  moon's  softest  beams  lit  up,  with  a  rapturous 
and  majestic  glory,  the  symbols  of  the  broken  body 
and  outpoured  blood  of  the  Redeemer.  Every  ray 
seemed  to  quiver  with  instinctive  and  divine  sympathy, 
as  it  touched  the  bread  and  wine.  Every  crumb  of  the 
bread  was  a  radiance.  The  ruby  drops  of  wine  gleamed 
with  a  living  splendor.  Even  Caspar,  who  had  genera- 
tions of  truest  rationalists  in  his  blood,  found  himself 
looking  upon  the  scene  with  an  awed  soul.  Before  him 
stood  many  of  the  neighboring  mountaineers,  each  un- 
consciously making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"  I  have  beheld  the  Host  elevated  within  the  walls  of 
St.  Mark's,"  whispered  Caspar,  "  and  I  have  felt  the  sub- 
lime calm  of  worshipful  emotions,  as  I  gazed  upon  the 
high  altar;  but  never  have  I  beheld  such  — 

"Never  before,"  said  the  resolute  and  affectionate 
Alke,  "  have  you  beheld  God  himself  touching  the  sac- 
ramental emblems  with  His  own  pencil." 

Caspar's  strong  hand  found  the  warmer  hand  of  the 
maiden,  to  whom  every  revelation  of  the  good  had  be- 
come also  a  revelation  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true ;  and 
he  was  sorry  on  the  instant,  when  he  found  that  he  had 
said  rather  peremptorily,  "  Hush,  my  child  !  " 

But  he  could  not  break  her  spell.  From  that  moment 
Alke  was  an  object  of  peculiar  reverence  and  affection  to 
all  the  Waldensians.  Even  the  regidor  —  the  elder  of 
the  two  Barbes  who  travelled  together  was  called  the 
"regidor;"  the  younger,  "coadjutor"  —quoted  her 
saying  in  the  sermon  which  followed.  When  the  aged 
man  whom  we  have  seen  with  his  scarred  forehead  smit- 
ten with  the  moonlight,  and  trudging  on  by  Alke's  side 
toward  the  cavern,  heard  her  speak,  he  only  averred 
once  more,  "  She  is  the  angel  of  the  dawn  !  "  Very  soon 


2l6  J/aVA    A\D   h'XIGHT. 

the  Waldensian  mothers  who  had  carried  thither  their 
little  ones,  had  crowded  about  her  as  she  stood  outside 
in  the  faint  firelight,  looking  dreamily  toward  heaven. 
Each  mother  was  silent,  that  she  might  hear  what  else 
Alke  should  say  which  would  seem  like  a  revelation.  But 
Alke  only  kissed  the  little  ones. 

'•  May  God  preserve  them  in  His  abundant  love  !  " 
said  she,  as  she  carefully  folded  something  from  which 
she  had  been  reading  in  the  moonlight,  —  something 
which  the  simple-hearted  wives  of  the  mountaineers  de- 
clared did  tremble  and  shine  as  did  the  emblems  of  the 
sacrament,  —  and  she  went  into  the  cavern  again.  For 
these  who  lingered  without,  meditating  on  Alke's  words, 
she  prayed. 

Alke  had  become  deeply  conscious  that  she  was  living 
in  a  superstitious  age,  and  that  even  she  must  not  become 
a  stone  of  stumbling  unto  those  who  often  had  felt,  as 
they  turned  aside  from  the  elaborate  ceremonial  and  im- 
pressive worship  taught  by  the  Roman  Church,  a  barren- 
ness of  belief  and  vacancy  of  faith  which  it  was  sometimes 
hard  to  reconcile  with  the  richness  and  sublimity  of  truth. 
Alke  prayed  devoutly  for  them.  She  knew  that  she  pos- 
sessed an  awful  charm  for  their  awakened  religiousness. 
She  and  her  words  in  that  cavern  had  at  once  suggested 
and  outshone  the  picturesqueness  of  the  Church  of  Rome. 
Some  even  whispered  that  she  looked  as  the  Virgin  must 
have  looked  at  the  hour  of  the  annunciation. 

The  regidor  had  begun  to  speak. 

In  a  low  and  impressive  voice  he  said  :  "  We  are  here 
as  the  children  of  a  Father  whose  are  earth  and  heaven. 
But  our  Father's  earth  is  held  by  the  enemies  of  a  true 
faith ;  and  our  foes  are  so  strong  that  we  may  not  wor- 
ship as  God  has  directed  in  the  Scriptures.  We  are 
denied  even  the  open  sky  for  a  pure  faith.  We  have 
been  driven  here  .by  the  recollection  of  cruel  swords 
which  have  gleamed  through  many  years.  Our  fathers 


HOLY  COMMUNION.  21  f 

before  us  toiled  up  these  steeps,  and  crawled  with  careful 
labor  down  these  fissures,  not  because  they  were  not 
God's  children,  but  because  they  were  truly  such,  and 
sought  to  worship  Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  We  have 
this  night  placed  our  feet  in  their  old  path.  It  led  them 
unto  Him  ;  it  will  lead  us  also.  No  rich  windows  filled 
with  monkish  fables  invite  this  light  which  falls  upon  this 
table  of  our  Lord.  It  comes  through  an  air  unvexed  by 
man's  fancies.  God  Himself  touches  these  emblems  with 
a  divine  pencil.  He  has  provided  His  poor  children  with 
tapers  for  the  altar  which  were  lit  beyond  the  stars.  We 
have  no  cathedral  save  this  which  God  builded.  Our 
defence  is  the  munitions  of  rocks.  No  long  trains  of 
priests  and  choristers  animate  this  scene ;  but  the  angels 
of  God,  who  are  silent,  encamp  about  them  who  love 
Him.  Our  song  of  triumph  will  break  forth  when  that 
silence  which  evil  and  pretentious  things  cannot  endure, 
shall  have  swallowed  up  those  who  confound  God's 
people." 

The  coadjutor  arose  and  stood  by  his  side  in  the  pale 
brilliance.  Almost  as  by  inspiration,  a  voice  full  of  re- 
ligious fervor  and  tender  with  the  consciousness  of  mem- 
ories awakened  by  the  emblems  upon  the  stony  altar, 
exhaled  a  breath,  sweet  and  all-pervasive,  —  a  breath  of 
sacred  melody.  Fear  may  have  at  first  compelled  all 
others  to  remain  silent.  The  Barbe  was  mute;  and 
soon  a  look  of  approval  added  beauty  to  his  sad  and 
worn  face.  The  voice,  which  had  once  grown  hesitant 
on  feeling  its  loneliness,  now  gathered  strength  and  rich- 
ness, as  still  more  solemnly  and  tenderly  it  filled  every 
heart  with  rapture,  and  with  a  deliberate  grandeur  con- 
tinued its  praises  within  the  echoing  vault,  until  the  old 
mountain's  heart  must  have  grown  warm  with  the  melody. 

The  voice  at  length  ceased  its  ministry.  The  tones 
which  fell  at  the 'last  from  Alke's  lips  seemed  prayers. 
Every  one  found  within  his  bosom  a  Christ,  to  whom 


2l8  MOA'A'  AND 

alone  sins  were  confessed.  Even  the  Barbe's  blue  eyes 
were  tearful ;  and  Alke,  when  with  almost  entire  self- 
forgetfulness  she  had  sung  the  entire  canticle  of  Simeon, 
covered  her  face  as  she  prayed. 

So  profound  an  impression  had  the  song  made,  so  did 
its  heart-searching  strains  lift  the  soul  of  each  above  the 
praises  or  curses  of  men  into  the  very  presence  of  God, 
that  the  Barbe,  alway>  anxious  wisely  to  substitute  for  the 
rejected  confessional  of  man's  invention  something  more 
divine,  stretched  forth  his  hands,  and  only  interpreting 
what  was  occurring  in  many  breasts,  said,  — 

"  Confession  to  us,  confession  even  to  the  most  worthy 
of  men,  can  only  be  blessed  of  God,  when  in  private 
conversation  age  and  good  character  give  their  admoni- 
tion and  comfort  to  the  soul.  I  beg  all  of  you  even 
now  to  confess.  Confess  ye  to  the  lyord  Jesus  Christ, 
the  great  Shepherd  of  the  sheep ;  and  let  no  one  be 
mediator,  in  such  a  moment  as  this,  save  the  great  High 
Priest  who  hath  entered  into  the  Holy  of  Holies  !  " 

At  that  instant,  when  silence  was  teaching  every  one 
how  much  more  stable  was  that  confidence  in  God  which 
their  unuttered  confessions  expressed  than  any  confi- 
dence in  man  could  be,  a  veritable  son  of  Anak,  strong, 
stalwart,  and  untamable  as  all  believed  him  to  be  up  to 
this  moment,  with  tears  flowing  down  his  dust-covered 
cheeks  and  losing  themselves  in  the  thick,  unkempt  locks 
of  his  coarse,  long  beard,  staggered  forward,  and  looking 
like  a  huge  ghost  in  silvery  radiance  which  hung  before 
the  communion  table,  cried  out,  as  he  gazed  into  the  face 
of  the  regidor,  — 

"  I  have  wronged  you  !  T  is  you,  also,  I  have  wronged. 
God  has  forgiven  me;  will  you  also  forgive?" 

The  face  of  the  regidor  was  a  bright  benediction  when 
he  said,  "  In  the  name  of  Christ,  all  is  forgiven ;  I  have 
nought  against  you." 

said  Gaspar  Perrin,  who  had  comprehended 


HOLY  COMMUNION. 


2I9 


the  whole  scene,  "  this  is  a  judgment  day  at  midnight. 
God's  throne  is  set  up  in  a  cave.  Surely  " —  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  emblems  —  "  the  crucified  Lamb  of 
God  shall  judge  the  earth." 

The  truth  as  to  the  circumstance  was  this.  A  year 
before,  this  same  Catalan  Boursuer  had  been  found  in  a 
quarrel  with  a  fellow  Waldensian,  involving  the  possession 
of  a  harvest.  In  all  such  matters  the  Barbe  usually 
nominated  arbitrators,  thus  hastening  for  truth's  sake  the 
settlement  of  all  disputes.  Most  basely  had  that  mus- 
cular mountaineer  insisted,  when  the  arbitrament  was 
held  against  him,  that  the  Barb6  had  purposely  appointed 
enemies.  With  a  poisoned  tongue,  which  sort  of  tongue 
is  never  so  venomous  as  after  it  has  learned  pious  phrase- 
ology, had  Catalan  Boursuer  slandered  the  just  and  al- 
together unsuspicious  Barbe\  Now,  and  before  that 
communion-table,  his  Lord  and  Master  had  judged 
Catalan.  Alke's  delicious  song;  Catalan's  rough  figure 
stumbling  through  the  dark  and  falling  before  that  bril- 
liance as  he  uttered  a  half-sobbing  prayer,  -»-  surely  this 
was  the  gate  of  heaven  to  their  waiting  souls  ! 

In  all  these  circumstances  and  events  there  had  been 
little  to  remind  any  one  who  had  ever  worshipped  at  the 
altars  of  the  Roman  Church,  of  the  ceremonies  of  Ca- 
tholicism. In  the  haste  of  the  next  few  moments,  which 
was  caused  by  an  alarm  from  without,  a  contrast  was  in- 
stituted between  the  celebration  of  the  communion  —  if 
we  must  use  so  protestant  a  phrase  —  as  the  regidor  con- 
ducted it,  and  the  more  ancient  and  churchly  spectacle. 
Such  a  contrast,  indeed,  it  was  as  to  prophesy  the  sim- 
plicity of  coming  days. 

Two  incidents  will  serve  to  show  the  condition  of  the 
Waldensian  mind,  which  at  a  later  date,  on  matters  theo- 
logical and  liturgical,  was  in  some  incidental  regards  as 
easily  satisfied  with  the  opinions  and  practices  of  the 
Reformers  as  they  had  previously  been  with  the  ancient 


22O  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

forms.  Alke  was  only  one  ot  many  in  that  band  in 
whose  blood  ran  a  Romish  culture.  Only  now  and  then 
had  Caspar  detected  in  her  mental  or  spiritual  life  an 
intimation  that  Count  Aldani  Neforzo  was  her  grandsire. 

That  night  as  she  sat  by  his  side,  gazing  upon  the 
moonlit  bread  and  wine,  she  was  thinking  of  the  Trans- 
figuration of  her  Lord  which  she  had  dared  to  attempt 
placing  in  illumination  on  parchment. 

The  hours  were  passing  swiftly.  The  regidor  took  up 
the  service  with  a  solemn  joy.  No  cardinal  in  robes  of 
office  could  have  seemed  more  sublime.  Instead  of 
muttering  the  words  of  the  Mass,  which  they  had  begun 
to  abhor,  there  came  from  every  lip  the  softly  repeated 
Lord's  Prayer,  —  as  simple  as  yonder  baby's  cry,  more 
sublime  than  those  mountain  heights  round  about. 
Every  one  had  bowed  upon  the  cold  floor  of  the  huge 
cavern  ;  and  instead  of  "  Ave  Maria,"  came  again,  in  rich 
-on,  their  simple  canticles,  shaking  again  the  stone 
sides  with  an  echo  of  love  divine. 

Still  did  ^ke  view,  with  an  increasing  and  wondering 
interest,  the  glow  of  light  upon  the  unleavened  bread 
and  the  wine  whose  every  drop  trembled  with  that  mel- 
ody. Caspar  saw  her  agitation.  The  girl  for  a  moment 
looked  the  similitude  of  her  dead  mother ;  but  only  as 
the  wife  of  Caspar's  heart  looked  one  night  in  Venice 
when  her  protesting  zeal  left  her  for  a  little  time  and 
she  cried  for  the  Eucharist.  Could  it  be  that  Alke  was 
slipping  from  him? 

He  tried  to  look  a  subduing  calm  into  her  restless 
eyes.  But  no ;  she  was  reflecting  :  "  The  Barbe  has  al- 
lowed me  to  sing ;  yes,  he  has  allowed  it." 

A  more  brilliant  streak  of  moonlight  played  upon  the 
bread  and  wine. 

Alke  spoke.  Nay  ;  it  was  not  speech  :  it  was  a  chant, 
a  rapture,  a  sort  of  divinely  governed  rhapsody.  Yet 
ever)-  Waldensian  recognized  the  words  as  they  came 


HOLY  COMMUNION.  221 

from  those  inspired  lips,  as  did  the  song  of  Miriam  at  the 
seaside.  They  comprehended  the  story  of  the  Transfig- 
uration of  the  Lord.  Every  ear  was  attentive.  A  hush 
as  of  death  held  the  infant  quiet  in  its  mother's  arms ; 
and  the  silence  communicated  a  sacred  afflatus  to  every 
soul,  as  each  stood  still  with  fixed  eye  beholding  the 
bread  and  wine  which  were  now  glowing  with  the  silvery 
fire,  and  Alke  repeated  the  words :  "  And  his  face  did 
shine  as  the  sun,  and  his  raiment  was  white  as  the  light." 

Had  Alke  beheld  the  glory  of  transfiguring  power,  in 
the  transformation  of  the  wine  and  bread  into  the  blood 
and  body  of  the  Redeemer? 

For  a  single  moment  did  this  holy  interruption  discon- 
cert the  regidor;  and  then  he  turned  the  incident,  by 
his  very  silence,  into  the  energy  possessed  by  the  spiritual 
atmosphere  with  which  each  was  surrounded,  if  not  in- 
spired. By  his  side  was  the  youthful  coadjutor,  who  was 
bewildered.  He  appeared  ignorant  of  what  to  expect 
next  in  this  strangely  confused  but  obviously  divinely 
arranged  service. 

At  length  the  regidor  offered  the  broken  bread  to  the 
coadjutor,  then  lifted  a  fragment  to  his  own  lips.  Then 
the  wine  was  taken  by  each,  amid  the  silent  glow.  The 
men  and  women  arose.  Every  soul  became  a  communi- 
cant ;  every  heart  confessed  obedience  to  the  captain  of 
his  salvation.  One  by  one  they  passed  in  front  of  the 
regidor  and  coadjutor,  —  one  of  these  repeating  the 
words  :  "  This  bread  is  broken  for  the  communion  of 
the  body  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  which  we  now  take ;  " 
the  other  saying,  "This  cup  of  blessing  which  is  now 
consecrated  is  the  communion  of  the  blood  of  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ." 

At  length  Alke  came  alone  unto  the  table  of  her  Lord. 
Every  one  stood  with  hushed  reverence,  as  she  ap- 
proached the  sacred  spot.  There  and  then  had  the  men 
who  looked  upon  her  vowed  to  defend  their  faith.  There 


222  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

widows,  who  remembered  on  that  night  the  fathers  of 
their  orphaned  children,  had  given  new  pledges  to  their 
God.  There  old  age  had  sipped  the  nectar  of  eternal 
youth,  as  in  those  bits  of  unleavened  bread  and  in  those 
drops  of  wine  was  revealed  a  living  cause. 

What  had  Alke  to  bring? 

Once  again  did  she  seem  to  Caspar  to  possess  the  tem- 
per and  attitude  of  a  Neforzo.  Within  each  of  us  the 
passion  of  forgotten  ancestry  arises  and  averts  its  feeble 
existence,  at  these  critical  junctures  in  our  own  lives, 
where  in  the  lives  of  others  and  at  other  times  it  was 
easily  supreme.  Surely  Count  Aldani  Neforzo,  the  father 
of  Alke's  mother,  whose  dust  Caspar  buried  in  Venice,  had 
often  beheld  at  moments  such  as  this,  when  the  oblation 
of  Christ  appeared  to  consecrate  all  acts  and  hopes,  that 
impressive  scene  in  the  life  of  some  copyist  or  illumina- 
tor, when,  seeking  the  salvation  of  his  own  soul  through 
good  works,  the  weary  artist  who  had  lovingly  copied  a 
homily  or  embellished  a  gospel,  would  crowd  close  to  the 
high  altar,  and  strain  to  obtain  a  sight  of  the  elevated 
host,  as  he  begged  the  Holy  Mother  to  receive  the  long- 
ripening  fruit  of  his  genius  and  labor. 

Whatever  force  of  ancestry  was  behind  her,  Alke 
stopped  suddenly  before  the  regidor,  and  looking  only 
at  the  bread  and  wine,  on  which  still  trembled  the  pale 
splendor  which  came  like  a  flood  through  the  aperture 
above  her  head,  bowed  herself;  flung  back  the  sunny 
waves  which  fell  over  her  breast  as  she  uttered  a  brief 
prayer ;  pushed  her  hand  within  her  dress  until  it  felt  her 
own  heart  beat,  and  reaching  the  parchment,  which  we 
saw  her  folding  up  as  she  stood  without  the  cavern  peer- 
ing into  the  skies,  she  held  the  richly  illuminated  Lord's 
Prayer  before  the  eyes  of  the  two  Barbed  and  before  the 
sacred  emblems.  With  untrembling  grasp  she  kept  it 
suspended  in  that  streaming  flame  of  whitest  light.  The 
hand  which  had  created  it  out  of  purple  and  gold  and 


HOLY  COMMUNION.  22$ 

silver  and  dragon's  blood,  each  tint  of  which  now  shone 
as  never  before,  was  baptized  in  splendor  from  above. 
In  silence  she  partook  of  the  bread  of  the  communion. 
The  wine  was  near  her  lips,  when  a  shout  from  without 
penetrated  the  cavern. 

The  Barbes  lifted  the  bread  and  the  wine  and  the 
parchment  from  the  altar-table.  The  shout  of  alarm  was 
repeated. 

"  An  enemy  has  been  seen  by  the  watchman  !  An 
enemy  !  !  " 

Every  eye  discerned  the  crisis.  Every  Waldensian 
discovered  a  missile  in  each  rock  which  had  helped  to 
constitute  the  altar- table  of  the  Lord.  Down  into  the 
darkness  of  the  pines,  which  was  broken  into  by  the 
same  moonlight  which  had  illuminated  the  emblems  and 
the  parchment,  Alke  hurled  the  first  stone. 

In  an  hour  the  communing  church  had  become  the 
church  militant ;  the  altar-table  had  been  thrown,  stone 
after  stone,  into  the  gorge  below.  At  the  bottom  there 
lay  the  body  of  a  disguised  Capuchin,  whose  brutal  face 
was  scarred  by  the  rock  which  had  killed  him ;  and  the 
worshippers  who  had  been  made  sure  of  an  attack  from 
above  were  hurrying  to  outrun  the  dawn,  as  they  fled 
homeward. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

MA- 
C'cst  mon  fils  glorieux  et  triomphant  C6sar.  — LOUISE  OF  SAVOY. 

r  I  X)  those  observant  and  thoughtful  Frenchmen  who 
X  honored  the  memory  of  their  late  sovereign  Louis 
XII.,  the  coronation  of  Francis  I.  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Rheims  appeared  to  be  an  invitation  to  every  romantic 
and  adventurous  young  man  to  join  a  standard  which 
had  been  blessed  on  that  occasion  by  Robert  de  Lenon- 
court,  Anhl>i>hop  •  nd  instantly  made  an  object 

of  adoration  by  all  the  feudatories  and  vassals  who  shared 
with  the  army  a  dislike  of  tin-  Kn^lish  alliance,  and  the 
poets  and  courtiers  whose  ai  Before  them  a  path 

of  glory.  Not  the  least  enthusiastic  of  those  whose  youth 
now  saw  an  end  of  the  inglorious  schemes  which  so 
honored  the  opinions  of  Henry  VIII.,  was  the  knight 
Ami.  Especially  was  he  gratified  at  the  fact  that  Chan- 
cellor Duprat,  for  whom  he  felt  as  active  a  dislike  as  he 
had  for  the  English  sovereign,  had  not  succeeded  in  de- 
feating the  intention  of  Francis  I.,  of  making  the  Duke  of 
Bourbon  Constable  of  France. 

Throughout  all  the  jousts  and  tourneys,  processions 
and  banquets,  the  faithful  eye  of  Ami,  never  blinded 
by  the  beauty  of  the  handsome  king,  saw  two  things 
ahead,  —  the  first,  the  effect  of  the  idea  within  the 


MARIGNANO.  22$ 

mind  of  Francis  I.  of  entering  Italy  to  recapture  the 
Duchy  of  Milan ;  the  second,  a  rapidly  swelling  debt 
which  such  pomp  and  plans  were  creating,  and  which 
had  nothing  to  appeal  to  save  an  exhausted  treasury  and 
an  already  overtaxed  people. 

"  I  can  never  forget  the  labor  and  sufferings  of  the 
peasant  at  Chilly,"  said  he  one  day  to  the  king,  when 
his  Majesty  laughed  at  his  own  royal  extravagance. 

"  Well,"  replied  the  amused  monarch,  "  we  will  re- 
create Charlemagne's  palace  here,  and  greater  than 
Arthur's  knights  shall  rule  at  our  court.  The  women 
shall  be  goddesses,  if  need  be,  though  some  of  them 
are  frail !  " 

Ami  was  not  encouraged,  when  he  was  allowed  to  hear 
the  plans  of  Louise  of  Savoy  and  Chancellor  Dupratt 
"  Every  objection  on  the  part  of  the  populace  will  give 
way  before  the  reappearance  of  royal  power,"  said  Du- 
prat.  '  "  We  have  hitherto  asked  the  English  to  make 
France  respectable  in  her  own  eyes.  We  will  now 
create  self-respect.  Our  Parliament  will  pay  for  a 
magnificent  success ;  they  will  refuse  to  pay  for  a  dull 
and  commonplace  throne,  which  is  neither  a  success  nor 
a  failure." 

To  all  this,  Louise  of  Savoy,  whom  the  king  had 
created  Duchesse,  whose  revenues  had  been  exhausted 
and  to  whom  the  palace  of  Amboise  had  been  given, 
assented,  while  she  protested  against  the  bestowment  of 
the  title  of  "  Constable"  on  Bourbon. 

One  day,  Nouvisset  —  a  gossip  who  never  gossiped 
unwisely  —  made  Ami  acquainted  with  the  peculiarly 
interesting  facts  which  bound  Marguerite,  the  king's 
sister,  to  the  Duke  of  Bourbon,  and  repulsed  the  haughty 
mother  from  so  proud  a  courtier.  Why  was  he  made 
Constable  ? 

"  I  know,"  said  the  young  man,  "  that  it  was  done  to 
please  the  gracious  Madame  Marguerite." 
VOL.  i.  — 15 


226  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Nouvisset,  "  neither  Duprat  nor  his  Maj- 
esty's mother  loves  Bourbon  as  a  constable." 

"  I  discern  in  the  king  himself  a  disposition  to  under- 
rate Constable  Bourbon." 

"  You  are  innocent  of  what  you  ought  to  know.  I  will 
tell  you.  The  king's  disposition  to  quarrel  with  so  strong 
a  man  began  to  show  itself  at  Amboise.  It  is  only  another 
love-affair,  —  indeed,  everything  is  love  here.  Politics 
is  the  art  of  getting  into  love  and  getting  out  again. 
Statesmanship  is  the  art  of  keeping  out  altogether,  Ami !  " 

"  Let  me  have  the  story,"  begged  the  impatient  knight. 

"  It  is  this.  When  he  was  plain  Charles  de  Montpen- 
sier,  the  man  who  is  now  constable  fell  in  love.  You 
would  not  think  such  a  stiff,  proud,  chilly  person  could 
melt  with  passion.  But  he  loved  the  daughter  of  our 
new  duchesse,  —  he  loved  even  Marguerite.  Young  Duke 
Francis  used  to  go  about  Amboise  with  Gouffier,  calling 
his  sister  '  Pearl  beyond  price ; '  and  under  the*  lilacs 
young  Montpensier  —  think  of  it !  —  Due  de  Bourbon 
was  making  love  to  her  who  is  now  Madame  !  Oh,  tem- 
pora  mutant,  Ami !  Excited  by  Gouffier,  who  also  was 
mad  with  love  for  her,  Francis,  who  never  liked  Mont- 
pensier as  he  did  the  other  young  nobles,  Gouffier  and 
Vaudenesse,  challenged  him.  The  combat  was  pre- 
vented, and  Charles  de  Montpensier  left  the  court  and 
the  heart-broken  Marguerite."  Nouvisset  hesitated,  and 
then  added  :  "  All  this  while  Madame  Louise  —  Duchesse  ! 

—  was  in  love  with  Vaudenesse,  who  threw  off  his  gray 
and  green  and  wore  the  colors  of  Madame  d'Angouleme 

—  Duchesse!     It  was  now  the  chance  of  M.  de  die, 
who  also  loved    her  —  oh,  France  is  a  vast  love-affair, 
Ami :  —  it  was  now  his  chance  to  rid  Amboise  of  M.  de 
Vaudenesse,  which  he  easily  did  after  the  night  in  which 
the  young  noble  was  found  in  the  gallery." 

••\Vhat  about  the  king's  mother,  Louise  of  Savoy?" 
asked  Ami,  intently. 


MARIGNANO.  227 

"  The  Duchesse !  Yes ;  she  was  compensated.  She 
always  will  be,  mark  me,  Ami !  "  The  eyes  of  Nouvisset 
twinkled  like  bright,  happy  stars.  "  It  must  always  be 
remembered  in  your  calculations  that  the  Due  de  Bour- 
bon loved  the  '  Pearl  beyond  price.'  " 

Ami  had  another  fact  at  hand  for  future  use,  when  by 
the  side  of  Bourbon  Constable  stood  Odet  de  Foix,  Sire 
de  Lautrec,  who  had  now  been  made  ruler  of  Guienne, 
and  Bonnivet,  who  was  now  Admiral  of  the  Fleet. 

Duprat  he  distrusted  and  hated ;  Bourbon's  ability  had 
captivated  him  ;  Bonnivet —  formerly  plain  Gouffier  who 
had  already  instigated  Francis  I.  to  attack  Bourbon,  who 
was  never  able  to  allow  that  wound  made  in  the  friend- 
ship between  the  king  and  the  duke  to  be  healed  — 
seemed  to  Ami  to  be  a  jealous,  self- asserting,  inefficient 
man.  How  easily  jealousy  in  another  finds  the  toes  of 


our  own  ! 

"  The  pretence  !  "  said  Ami  confidentially  to  Nouvisset, 
when  they  came  together  at  a  later  hour  at  the  queen's 
reception,  and  beheld  Bonnivet's  pallor,  when  the  latter 
saw  the  blush  upon  the  face  of  Marguerite  as  the  mag- 
nificent Bourbon  approached  her,  —  "  the  pretence  !  I 
should  smite  him  if  I  were  the  duke." 

"  The  duke's  thought  is  upon  some  one  more  important 
to  him  than  even  the  Admiral  Bonnivet,  Ami.  Mark 
the  regret  on  the  face  of  Marguerite,  our  beautiful  Du- 
chesse d'Alengon,"  whispered  Nouvisset.  "  Look  at  that 
selfish  passion  in  her  mother's  eye ;  see  the  eye  of  the 
Duchesse  d'Angouleme.  Ah  !  Ami,  there  is  another 
love-story  in  all  this.  Madame  d'Angouleme  loves  her 
daughter's  lover,  Bourbon  !  " 

Ami  was  at  that  juncture  more  nearly  convinced  than 
ever  that  statesmanship  in  France,  at  least  at  that  hour, 
was  the  art  of  keeping  out  of  love  altogether.  He  felt  a 
twinge  of  shame  that  he  himself  had  ever  felt  deeply 
about  the  beautiful  sister  of  the  king. 


228  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

The  whole  court  was  there.  It  was  the  hour  in  the 
annals  of  the  French  soldiery  which  could  boast  of  men 
known  as  Chevalier  Bayard  and  Constable  Due  de  Bour- 
bon. The  battle-field  of  Marignano  was  just  ahead,  and 
the  ardent  spirits  of  France  were  shouting,  when  the 
Duchesse  d'Alencon —  his  sighing,  regretful  Marguerite 
de  Valois  of  other  days  —  caught  sight  of  the  brilliant 
commander,  her  Due  de  Bourbon,  whose  plume  of  white 
and  crimson  feathers  came  close  to  the  window  where 
stood  the  unhappy  woman  and  her  husband,  known  in 
French  history  as  Due  d'Alencon. 

Ami  turned  from  them  at  once  when  he  saw  Margue- 
rite's eyes  visit  the  silvered  sash  and  begemmed  poniard 
of  the  constable  with  a  shuddering  look  of  pride,  and 
the  inferior  personage  at  her  side  with  a  smile  of  pity. 
The  young  knight's  eye  paused  for  an  instant  upon  the 
glittering  casque  of  Bourbon,  and  the  flushed  cheek  of 
his  jealous  rival,  Bonnivet ;  then,  with  the  rest  of  the 
king's  suite,  he  was  himself  lost  for  a  moment  amid  the 
velvet  and  gold,  until  he  was  startled  to  hear  the  King 
Francis  I.  say,  — 

"  Too  magnificent  is  our  constable.  But,  Ami,  the 
Duchy  of  Milan  shall  be  ours,  —  mine.'" 

The  emphasis  was  on  the  word  "  mine."  The  proud 
Francis  was  himself  rankling  with  envy;  but  yet  he 
knew  that  he  must  use  Bourbon  and  be  patient. 

"And,"  said  he  to  Ami,  to  whom  by  this  time  he 
sought  to  explain  everything,  "  I  have  assented  to  the 
suggestion  of  the  Chancellor  Duprat  to  multiply  the  judi- 
cial offices  which  may  be  for  sale." 

At  once  the  king  saw  that  a  better,  statesmanship  than 
his  was  offended. 

"  Frown  not  upon  his  Majesty  !  It  is  done.  Parlia- 
ment must  learn  that  the  most  chivalrous  army  which 
ever  crossed  the  Alps  shall  be  supported." 

Too  young  as  yet  in  his  relations  to   Francis  I.  as  his 


MARIGNANO.  22Q 

king,  to  oppose  vigorously,  and  just  sufficiently  youthful 
to  partake  of  the  excited  hope  that  the  throne  of  his 
royal  friend  might  become  the  greatest  in  Europe,  Ami 
was  silent,  while  Louise  of  Savoy  was  made  Queen 
Regent,  and  the  army  whose  vanguard  was  now  under 
command  of  Bourbon  was  made  ready  to  set  out  for 
Italy. 

Close  to  the  sovereign  rode  Ami,  whose  figure  and 
whose  wise  handling  of  his  delicate  responsibilities  had 
much  of  the  elegance  of  Bourbon,  but  more  of  the 
grace  of  Bayard,  who,  as  Lieutenant-General  of  Dauphiny, 
also  rode  near  the  king. 

"  It  is  probable,"  Nouvisset  had  said  to  Ami,  as  they 
parted,  "  that  this  may  be  a  victory  for  you.  Let  our 
king  triumph  while  he  may.  Some  day,  believe  me," 
and  the  eyes  of  the  lame  knight,  who  hobbled  by  Ami's 
side,  gleamed  with  prophecy,  "  the  burghers  will  some 
day  rise  against  feudal  nobles  and  their  kings ;  then  the 
triumph  will  be  theirs." 

"  Our  king  does  not  consult  with  England.  France  is 
her  own  mistress  now,"  cried  old  Trivulcio  the  censor,  as 
he  learned  that  both  Wolsey  and'  Henry  VIII.  were  in- 
dignant at  Francis  I.,  and  at  his  contemptuous  neglect  of 
them  in  this  expedition. 

Ami  looked  about  when  they  left  Lyons  on  that  day  of 
July,  1515,  and  he  saw  forty  thousand  men  with  trains  of 
artillery ;  but  it  was  he  alone  who  began  to  worry  the 
king  with  questions  as  to  the  difficulty  in  crossing  the 
Alps.  The  king  answered  by  calling  his  attention  to  the 
allies  and  their  strength.  There  was  Octaviati  Fregoso, 
doge  of  Genoa;  but  Ami  had  found  out  that  he  and 
D'Alviano,  general  of  the  Venetians,  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  problem.  News  came  that  Cardinal  Sion 
was  rousing  the  Swiss  to  a  pitch  of  crusading  fury  against 
the  conquest.  Twenty  thousand  Swiss  under  Colonna 
were  guarding  the  passes.  Between  Mont  Cenis  and 


230  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Mont  Genevre  were  soldiers  awaiting  the  opportunity  to 
overwhelm  horsemen  and  ordnance.  Ami  could  not  be 
silent,  though  Louise  of  Savoy  had  called  him  "  a  trouble- 
some youth."  Only  Chevalier  Bayard  was  wise  enough, 
amid  the  enthusiasm  of  the  advancing  host,  to  listen  to 
Ami's  suggestion  that  they  find  out  from  the  shepherds  of 
the. Alps  the  unknown  passes. 

"  Susa  is  guarded  and  is  impassable,"  said  he. 

Oh,  if  this  \Valdensian  had  at  that  hour  foreseen  the 
future,  how  carefully  he  might  have  studied  those  road- 
ways which  threaded  the  mountain  fastnesses,  for  he  was 
not  far  from  his  old  home  ! 

The  August  snows  were  melting,  and  they  had  come 
upon  the  brown  rocks  which  were  beginning  to  grow 
insurmountable,  when  Ami  with  a  vassal  of  the  Comte 
de  Moretto,  a  cousin  of  Bayard,  went  forth  from  the  rest 
to  find  a  shepherd. 

"  You  look  like  the  Piedmontese,"  said  the  chamois- 
hunter,  with  whom  the  disguised  Ami  soon  found  himself 
in  interesting  conversation.  There  was  an  all-pervading 
silence  about  the  young  knight,  as  he  thought  of  his  baby- 
hood, and  then,  jealous  again  of  his  own  self- consciousness, 
put  the  thought  aside  forever. 

The  route  to  the  plain  was  at  length  accurately  de- 
scribed by  the  shepherd.  Ami's  brain  was  a  map,  in 
which  Lautrec  and  Navarro  found  all  needed  information, 
when,  by  order  of  the  Council,  they  set  out  to  survey  the 
pass.  The  king  embraced  Ami,  and  Bayard  blessed  him, 
when  they  returned  and  reported  the  task  of  crossing  by 
way  of  the  Guillestre  ledge  entirely  practicable. 

"  The  astrologer  said  it ! "  remarked  Francis  I.  to 
Bayard,  as  Bourbon  led  on  the  vanguard  toward  the 
ford,  and  detachments  were  sent  to  hold  the  attention  of 
the  foe  at  Mont  Cenis  and  Mont  Genevre. 

But  the  supreme  trial  was  now  coming  to  Ami. 

Even  the  king  grew  haughty  and  cold,  and  Bonnivet 


MARIGNANO.  2$  I 

was  disdainful  and  insulting,  as  the  army,  after  reaching 
the  most  perilous  ravines,  found  itself  crawling  along, 
hand  over  hand,  through  difficulties  unimagined,  dragging 
the  heavy  artillery  up  the  rugged  slopes  of  the  mountains. 

"  Your  astrologer,  Sire,  ought  to  be  made  to  carry  a 
horse  over  this  abyss,"  said  the  wrathful  admiral,  address- 
ing his  Majesty,  as  he  looked  with  contempt  upon  Ami. 

Bayard  alone  kept  silent,  while  the  king  swore,  and 
Talmond  and  Imbercourt  reiterated  the  oaths  of  Bonni- 
vet,  whom  at  length  the  Constable  Bourbon  silenced, 
while  the  steep  declivities  confronted  them  from  the 
other  side.  Levelling  roads  through  flinty  rock ;  closely 
holding  to  one  another,  as  they  rounded  a  projecting 
cliff;  bridging  abysses  and  .crossing  torrents,  they  be- 
held horse  after  horse  tumble  into  the,  depths  below, 
until  at  length  Ami's  name,  for  five  days  an  epithet  of 
scorn,  was  the  one  name  which  the  knightly  Bayard 
spoke  lovingly  to  the  king's  marshal,  De  Chabannes.  At 
length  they  discovered  themselves  safe  in  the  territory  of 
the  Marquis  de  Saluzzo,  with  the  Alps  behind  them. 

"  Prosper  Colonna  !  "  said  the  invincible  Ami,  who  had 
made  another  discovery,  "  the  arrogant  Colonna  !  "  Ami 
pointed  toward  Villa  Franca,  where  Colonna,  the  Pope's 
commander,  was  dining. 

Bayard  and  Imbercourt  at  once  dashed  on,  with 
French  chivalry  behind  them,  to  carry  the  unwelcome 
news  to  this  hostile  warrior,  that  his  confederates  must 
meet  an  army  and  a  king  which  had  already  put  the  Alps 
between  them  and  retreat. 

Soon  a  sword  was  in  Bayard's  hand,  and  Andalusian 
horses,  with  jewels  and  plate,  were  possessed  by  the 
soldiers. 

September  1 3  came.  Cardinal  Sion's  furious  audiences 
were  now  surging  before  the  Cathedral  at  Milan,  — •  an 
army  filled  with  the  hope  of  joining  forces  with  Naples. 
No  eloquence,  however,  could  hurl  back  the  French  ad- 


23*  AfO.YA'  A.\'D  KNIGHT. 

vance.  Negotiations  and  parleys  had  failed.  The  elo- 
quent cardinal  at  last  shouted,  — 

"  Seize  your  spears  ;  sound  your  drums  !  " 

It  was  three  o'clock.  Dust  and  heat  surrounded  the 
advanced  guard  of  the  French.  Ami,  who  had  scouted 
the  plain,  and  was  now  dripping  with  water,  with  which 
he  was  drenched  in  the  canals  which  he  had  swum, 
crowded  into  the  presence  of  Bourbon,  announced  the 
enemy,  and  springing  into  his  armor  was  soon  with  the 
constable  in  the  presence  of  the  king. 

"  Oh,  Ami,"  said  his  Majesty, "  the  astrologer  said  it !  " 

"  The  Swiss  are  coming,  Sire  ! "  was  Ami's  reply,  when 
the  king  sprang  into  his  saddle  and  flew  toward  the 
enemy  with  his  body-guard. 

It  was  Ami's  first  battle.  Enthroned  upon  the  king's 
heart,  as  never  before,  he  felt  himself  a  sovereign.  True, 
as  he  believed  himself  to  have  been,  to  the  higher  states- 
manship to  which  he  was  as  yet  sure  his  sovereign  would 
soon  assent,  the  conflict  seemed  his  own.  Attached  to 
Bourbon,  and  indignant  at  the  jealousy  of  Bonnivet,  he 
was  in  rapture  when  he  saw  the  golden  pommel  of  the 
constable's  sword  lifted  high  above  the  dust-cloud  by 
that  strong  hand.  Ever  remembering  Nouvisset,  and  not 
forgetful  that  Louise  of  Savoy  had  regarded  himself  a 
failure  as  a  page,  he  thirsted  for  another  opportunity  for 
the  exhibition  of  wisdom  or  valor.  Already  hostile  to 
this  particular  plan  of  Leo  X.  and  proud  of  his  sovereign, 
he  had  pledged  every  drop  of  his  blood  to  his  king's 
desire,  —  the  recovery  of  the  Duchy  of  Milan. 

It  seemed  only  a  brief,  agonizing  hour  to  the  young 
knight. 

The  bareheaded  Swiss,  unshod  and  furious,  leaped  at 
once  against  the  cooler  intrepidity  of  France,  which  was 
now  throbbing  with  the  heart  of  youth.  Ami  could  not 
but  admire  them,  as  the  heavy  guns  discharged  their  shot 
and  fire  against  the  immovable  mountaineers.  Lan/. 


MARIGNANO.  233 

knechts  by  ranks  fell  back  into  the  ditch  to  die  before 
the  courageous  Swiss.  Four  guns  fell  into  their  hands, 
while  Ami  hurried  to  the  constable  to  tell  him  that  the 
German  allies  had  feared  treachery  and  were  therefore 
wavering. 

"  Only  the  king  may  rally  them,"  said  the  commander. 
"  They  must  see  the  King  of  France." 

Francis  I.,  with  Ami  at  his  side,  now  rushed  forward 
with  these  soldiers  who  had  fought  under  the  black 
banner  of  their  own  king.  Ami  gave  to  the  tired  king, 
who  was  fighting  on  foot,  his  unbroken  pike,  for  the 
fragment  to  which  his  Majesty  still  held. 

"  I  could  give  you  my  heart,"  said  the  knight. 

"The  astrologer  said  it !  "  cried  the  king,  tears  in  his 
throat,  as  he  saw  how  the  lanzknechts  now  rallied,  and 
the  Swiss  faltered  at  the  sight. 

Unafraid  of  the  mountain  chivalry,  the  mountaineers 
beat  back  the  tired  horses  of  the  French.  Through  the 
top  of  the  king's  helmet  was  driven  a  murderous  pike. 
The  French  were  roused  again.  Back  the  enemy  fell, 
until  Swiss  determination  paused  in  the  hope  of  acknowl- 
edged victory. 

"  Now,"  shouted  Ami,  as  if  he  had  assumed  com- 
mand of  the  king,  —  "  now  for  our  gendarmes  to  charge 
them  ! " 

Francis  I.,  on  the  instant,  made  the  charge ;  and  the 
four  thousand  foes  cried,  "  France  !  France  !  "  as  they 
surrendered. 

Night  had  come ;  it  was  all  confusion  and  death. 
Both  armies  were  misled  by  the  soldiers  of  either  side, 
bearing,  as  they  both  did,  the  white  cross.  Even  the 
king,  but  for  Ami's  cry,  "  It  is  the  foe,  the  foe  ! "  would 
have  been  captured,  as  he  started  on  horseback  into 
a  wilderness  of  hostile  pikes. 

Under  the  moonlight,  within  an  area  of  groans  and 
sighing,  the  faithful  young  knight  was  soon  watching  over 


MOXK  AND  A'XIGHT. 

the  king,  while  he  sat  awake,  when  the  corntts 
of  the  Swiss  sounded,  and  the  French  trumpets  pealed 
forth,  or  while  he  slept  a  little  on  a  gun-carriage,  assured 
that  Bayard  had  returned,  after  his  adventure,  to  the 
French  lines. 

The  Constable  Bourbon  was  a  silent  throne  of  power. 

"Put  out  the  lights!"  whispered  Ami,  when  in  the 
entangled  condition  of  the  armies  he  descried  a  Swiss 
battalion  resting  perilously  nfar  the  king.  The  mafrh^ 
were  relighted  but  once  in  the  long  hours  which  followed. 

••  Water  :  "  said  his  Majesty,  —  M  a  drink  for  a  thirsty 
king,  Ami  :  " 

Ami  produced  a  helmet ;  and  the  king  was  soon  pre- 
sented with  a  draught,  which  he  refused  to  take  when 
in  the  flickering  light  he  saw  that  it  was  red  with  blood. 

Morning  flamed  her  ruddy  signals  for  both  armies. 
The  ditch  gave  the  French  an  advantage  valuable  be- 
yond estimate.  But  backward  again  fell  the  lanzknechts ; 
twenty  thousand  were  in  disorder ;  the  Swiss  broke  into 
the  quarters  of  Bourbon. 

The  critical  moment  had  come.  Now  the  French 
poured  forth  volleys  of  flame  into  the  breasts  of  the  foe. 
Attacked  from  the  rear,  the  Due  d'Aleneon  routed 
them ;  stormed  at  in  front,  the  wall  of  infantry  began 
to  falter. 

"  D'AK-iano  !  D'Alviano  !  "  shouted  Ami  to  his  king, 
who  needed  but  the  assurance  that  his  Venetian  ally  was 
coming,  to  increase  his  own  valor. 

Inch  by  inch,  before  Bourbon  and  his  vanguard,  who 
were  roused  by  the  sight  of  the  king  fighting  midst  dust 
and  heat,  —  fighting  as  a  true  knight,  —  did  the  Swiss 
army  yield.  Man  by  man  did  they  Call  before  the  Gas- 
con  cross-bowmen,  until  Trivukio  cried,  '•  It  is  a  battle 
of  giants ;  I  have  seen  only  battles  of  pygmies  hitherto ;  " 
and  looking  about  on  a  field  on  which  lay  six  thousand 
dead  and  dying  Frenchmen  and  fourteen  thousand 


MARIGNANO.  235 

mountaineers,  —  a  field  from  which  the  hitherto  invin- 
cible Swiss  were  scattering,  —  Ami  said,  as  he  approached 
the  king,  — 

"  Sire,  it  is  your  triumph  !  It  is  no  longer  a  battle, 
but  a  victory." 

"  Ami,"  answered  his  Majesty,  "  the  astrologer  said  it ! " 

Before  aa  hour  had  gone,  that  well-known  message 
had  been  sent  from  the  royal  son  to  his  proud  mother, 
Louise  of  Savoy,  containing  every  evidence  of  the 
mingled  flippancy,  arrogance,  and  nobility  of  the  king's 
character. 

Before  night  had  come  Bayard  had  knighted  Francis  I. 
on  the  battle-field  of  Marignano ;  and  as  soon  as  the 
most  alert  policy  could  dictate  it,  Leo  X.  had  despatched 
a  nuncio,  who  carried  an  invitation  to  the  conqueror, 
which  was  destined  to  be  answered  by  the  appearance  of 
the  French  King  before  his  Holiness  at  Bologna. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

POPE,    KINC,    AND    KNIGHT. 
Godiamoci  il  pa  pat  o.  poichfe  Dio  ci  1*  ha  da  to  !  —  LEO  X. 

EC  EM  HER  8  had  come  ;  and  pausing  near  Bologna, 
the  victor  of  Marignano  saw  before  Jiim  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Sacred  College,  who  had  advanced  just  beyond 
the  gate  of  San  Felice  to  meet  him.  He  had  entered 
Milan,  October  16,  and  his  route  from  that  hour  had  been 
that  of  an  acknowledged  conqueror. 

What  a  pathway  of  thorns  had  Ami  travelled,  in  his 
conversations  with  the  king  ! 

Proud  of  his  sovereign,  and  zealous  for  the  success  of  his 
reign,  the  pupil  of  Nouvisset,  who  had  already  listened  to 
the  enkindling  words  of  the  reformer  Lefevre,  was  made 
painfully  aware  that  Francis  I.  had  no  comprehension 
whatever  of  the  subtle  influence  which  had  been  the 
impulse  of  the  Renaissance  and  was  now  to  become  the 
soul  of  the  Reformation.  Of  course,  Ami  still  believed 
in  what  were  known  as  the  regularly  constituted  authori- 
ties. He  had  not  entertained  an  idea  of  such  a  trans- 
formation in  the  Church  as  would  affect  the  existence  of 
the  papacy,  or  even  the  righteous  policies  of  his  Holi- 
ness. Something,  however,  -he  was  sure  must  be  done  so 
ID  purify  the  institution  that  it  should  become  more  wor- 
thy to  exercise  over  men's  minds  the  authority  which  it 
so  loudly  professed.  In  the  dust  and  heat  of  Marignano, 


POPE,   KING,   AND  KNIGHT.  237 

the  king  had  apparently  lost  every  sympathy  with  such  a 
change  as  had  formerly  received  his  faltering  praise. 

Indeed,  as  they  neared  the  confines  of  the  Pope's  ter- 
ritory, the  brilliancy  of  the  victory  behind  him  and  the 
fascinating  splendor  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  whom  he 
was  about  to  meet,  appeared  so  to  bewilder  his  dreamy 
and  luxurious  mind,  that  it  was  impossible  for  Ami  to 
get  a  hearing  for  the  serious  interests  of  his  country 
and  time. 

"  Again  you  are  gloomy,  —  you  who  came  to  be  my 
happiness?  Is  not  Marignano  enough  for  you?  Well, 
then,  I  will  show  you  a  pope  who  will  never  again  enter 
into  an  Italian  league  against  me,  —  a  pope,  Ami,  who 
beats  us  all  in  festivals  and  in  playing  the  Ciceronian. 
Come,  good  cheer,  as  the  English  say !  Ami,  good 
cheer  ! " 

The  king  was  in  his  happiest  mood,  and  his  over- 
flowing joy  echoed  with  laughter  which  died  away  in 
smiles  upon  the  faces  of  the  barons,  who,  close  be- 
hind the  Chancellor  Duprat,  rode  proudly  toward  the 
place  where  they  were  to  meet  the  humiliated  but  wary 
Pope. 

When  Duprat's  attention  was  a  little  diverted,  Ami 
ventured  to  ask,  "  Sire,  why  did  his  Holiness  prefer 
Bologna  to  Rome  itself?  " 

"  '  Ubi  papa,  ubi  Roma,'  "  answered  the  king ;  and  then, 
as  if  he  himself  were  not  quite  satisfied  with  this  some- 
what ineffective  saw,  he  added,  "  His  Holiness  knew  it  to 
be  too  much  to  ask  of  a  victorious  king  that  he  should 
endure  a  journey  to  Rome,  Ami !  " 

"Sire,  your  minister  believes  that?  " 

"  He  does,"  said  Francis  I.,  looking  swiftly  back  upon 
the  golden-vestured  attendants  ;  "  but,  Ami,  you  do  not 
believe  it." 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  Ami,  with  grave  affectionateness, 
—  "  your  Majesty  would  not  keep  himself  unaware  that 


238  MO.VA'  A.YD  KNIGHT. 

Pope  Leo  X.  fears  that  you  may  desire  to  enter  Naples ; 
and  Rome  is  a  long  way  toward  Naples." 

Pope  Leo  X.  had  prevented  any  display  of  French 
power  in  Rome. 

Then  was  Francis  I.  enraged  at  his  Holiness  and  at 
Duprat,  —  at  the  one,  because  of  his  shrewdness  in  making 
a  proposition  which  had  led  him  toward  Bologna ;  at  the 
other,  because  of  his  stupid  advice,  which  had  led  the 
French  monarch  to  accept  that  proposition. 

"  Do  you  know  that  Leo  X.  really  fears  me?  "  eagerly 
asked  the  king,  as  he  remembered  that  Duprat,  the  ser- 
vant, and  Louise,  his  mother,  were  so  warmly  attached  to 
the  Church  that  they  were  constantly  overestimating  popes 
and  underestimating  everything  else. 

"I  only  know  of  the  conversation  which  occurred  be 
tween  the  Venetian,  Marino  Giorgi,  and  the  Pope,"  dryly 
answered  Ami. 

"  Let  me  hear  it  again  !  "  demanded  the  dignity  of  the 
sovereign. 

Ami  proceeded,  much  as  the  historians  do,  to  relate 
what  had  been  a  common  report  at  Viterbo,  that  the  Vene- 
tian ambassador  at  Rome,  before  the  battle  had  taken 
place,  seeing  that  Leo  X.  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
success  of  the  Swiss  arms,  dared  to  remark  to  his  Holi- 
ness, "  The  Most  Christian  King  has  a  warlike  and  well- 
caparisoned  army ;  the  Swiss  are  not  mounted  or  well 
appointed  ;  "  and  that  to  this  the  pontiff  replied  by  pro- 
testing that  the  Swiss  were  quite  intrepid ;  to  which  the 
Venetian  made  the  rejoinder,  "  Were  it  not  better  for 
them  to  illustrate  their  valor  in  fighting  against  your  com- 
mon foe,  —  the  infidel  Turk  ?  " 

Francis  I.  broke  into  Ami's  story  with  the  question  : 
"  But  what  said  the  Pope  after  the  battle  was  fought  ? 
What  said  he  about  my  triumph?" 

"Well,"  continued  the  knight,  "everybody  in  Rome 
knew  that  the  victory  was  yours,  Sire,  when  Marino  stalked 


POPE,   KING,   AND   KNIGHT.  239 

to  the  Holy  Father  with  such  demonstrations.  He  even 
made  the  chamberlain  wake  his  Holiness  out  of  sleep, 
after  which  awakening,  the  Pope,  who  was  but  half  dressed 
as  they  say,  heard  the  unwelcome  truth  ;  and  he  said  with 
evident  fear,  '  What  will  be  the  result?  '  " 

"  What  did  the  Venetian  tell  him?  "  quickly  inquired 
the  king. 

"  This :  that  Venice  all  the  while  was  with  the  Most 
Christian  King,  and  that  their  Holy  Father  could  not 
suffer  at  the  hands  of  such  a  son  of  the  Church." 

"And  the  Pope?" 

"  He  answered  very  gloomily,  but,  Sire,  as  I  think,  very 
craftily ;'  for  he  said,  *  We  will  see  ;  we  will  place  ourselves 
in  his  hands  and  sue  for  his  love.'  " 

"Then,"  said  Francis  I.,  with  great  hauteur,  —  "then, 
Ami,  we  will  be  generous.  None  so  gracefully  as  a  vic- 
tor may  be  truly  magnanimous."  • 

"  Alas,  Sire  !  even  you  cannot  afford  to  forget  that  his 
Holiness  is  a  shrewd  politician,  and  that  your  chancellor 
leans  strongly  toward  the  Church." 

Ami  was  already  acquainted  with  his  king;  and  this 
outburst  of  proffered  magnanimity  which  he  had  just 
heard  did  not  surprise  him.  There  was  just  one  element 
lacking  in  it  all,  which  Ami's  character,  under  such  un- 
strained circumstances,  was  sure  to  miss,  —  the  element 
which  always  must  be  .present  to  redeem  magnanimity 
from  being  only  indolent  indifference,  —  and  that  was 
conscience. 

The  king  was  growing  restive  under  Ami's  words  :  and 
yet  he  was  not  content  to  abridge  the  freedom  which  the 
young  knight  used.  Unpleasant  information  from  this 
source  had  often  proved  most  valuable.  Ami  could  not 
forget  that  before  the  Pope  had  entered  into  the  Italian 
alliance,  no  less  a  scholar  than  the  already  eminent  Wil- 
liam Bude,  with  whom  we  shall  become  more  familiar  at 
a  later  date,  had  been  sent  by  Francis  I.  to  his  Holiness, 


240  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

bearing  many  offers  of  profitable  marriages  and  alluring 
pledges  to  be  made  good  if  the  Holy  Father  would  be  so 
minded  as  not  to  oppose  the  king's  invasion  of  Italy. 

••  You,  my  sovereign,  had  confidence  in  the  ability  and 
learning  of  the  excellent  Bude,"  remarked  Ami. 

"  Bud£  is  one  of  your  scholars,"  was  the  brief  saying  of 
the  king. 

"  An  ornament  of  your  kingdom,  Sire,  and  a  man  of 
the  reforming  party.  He  is  with  Lefevre,  Berquin,  and 
F.irel." 

"  He  is  an  innocent  man  of  learning,"  said  Francis  I., 
who  now  saw  that  the  knight  was  anxious  to  impress  his 
king  with  his  own  opinion  of  the  Pope's  wariness  and 
skill.  "  He  is  too  pious  for  an  ambassador,  Ami." 

"  And  the  pontiff  was  too  much  a  master  of  intrigue 
for  his  simple  honesty,"  added  the  knight.  "  Think  you 
that  the  Hoiy  Father  knew  that  Bud£'s  learning  had 
probably  led  him  to  consort  with  the  men  of  reform?  " 

"Learning?  What  reform?"  brusquely  answered 
Francis.  "  His  Holiness,  as  you  shall  see,  is  more 
learned  than  Berquin,  Bude,  and  Lefevre  taken  together. 
The  papacy  and  the  kingdom  of  France  fear  nothing." 

Again  Ami  was  amazed  at  the  growing  conceit  of  his 
king,  and  at  the  disposition  within  him  to  listen  with 
amiableness  to  the  stipulations  of  Rome.  All  notions  of 
counting  in  the  reforming  movement  among  the  forces 
or  problems  of  his  time  seemed  to  have  fled  from  the 
royal  brain. 

"  Ami,  you  have  a  cloud  upon  your  soul." 

"  None  upon  my  conscience,  your  Majesty,"  was  the 
swiftly  spoken  answer  of  the  young  knight. 

"  Oh,  that  is  knightly  enough  !  "  laughed  the  king ;  and 
he  proceeded  to  say,  "  You  would  have  me  attend  to  the 
vaporings  of  my  enemies,  would  you,  Ami?  " 

The  knight  straightened  in  his  saddle.  The  thirty 
cardinals  who  had  already  been  in  sight  for  some  min- 


POPE,   KING,   AND  KNIGHT.  241 

utes,  were  now  advancing  toward  the  king.  The  time 
was  short,  but  Ami  must  speak.  "  I  doubt  not,"  said  he, 
"  but  that  I  have  unduly  annoyed  my  king.  I  doubt  not 
but  that  Leo  X.,  our  Holy  Father,  is  a  scholar  and  a 
mighty  patron  of  artists,  musicians,  and  poets.  But, 
Sire,  your  kingdom  has  been  strong  in  the  love  of  your 
people.  The  next  age  —  it  seems  not  far  away  —  will 
not  be  so  favorable  to  feudatories  and  nobles,  kings  and 
popes.  We  have  seen  the  Swiss  burghers  beaten  back ; 
but  the  ideas  which  are  rife  everywhere  will  rally  the 
peoples,  even  the  peasants,  and  the  kings  will  suffer. 
The  Church  rests  in  the  power  of  the  Pope ;  it  ought  to 
rest  in  the  religious  life  of  all.  The  kingdom  rests  in  the 
greatness  of  the  king  and  in  the  subtlety  of  his  chancellor ; 
it  ought  to  rest  in  the  love  of  the  people  for  a  just 
government." 

"  Ah,  then,  you  would  have  me  abolish  the  sale  of 
judicial  offices?" 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  youthful  statesman.  "  It  is  an 
expediency  without  principle,  Sire.  The  parliament  of  the 
people  will  ultimately  abolish  a  parliament  of  twenty  coun- 
cillors, whose  places  were  bought  from  the  crown." 

"  We  could  not  have  had  Marignano  but  for  that  expe- 
dient of  the  Chancellor  Duprat,"  said  the  king,  curtly. 

"  Ah  !  but  what  of  the  next  Marignano?  "  Ami's  eyes 
looked  with  a  serene  unconsciousness  in  the  direction  of 
Pavia.  But  Francis  I.  had  seen  the  Pavia  of  1515  throw 
open  its  gates  with  shoutings. 

What  of  the  Pavia  of  1525?  Francis  I.  was  no 
prophet.  He  recked  not. 

Every  such  outburst  of  unimprisonable  truthfulness 
costs  the  human  soul  a  peril.  Every  act  of  moral  hero- 
ism or  of  mental  foresight  brings  a  recoil.  Ami  was 
very  young,  —  too  young,  as  it  instantly  seemed  to  him,  to 
be  lecturing  even  so  youthful  a  king,  —  too  young  as  yet 
to  have  these  notions  firmly  set  together  in  a  creed,  much 
VOL.  i. —  1 6 


242  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

less  in  a  political  faith.  He  had  only  come  to  that  hour 
of  political  transcendentalism  which  luxuriates  in  procla- 
mations. If  such  a  soul  keeps  his  conscience,  it  is  almost 
certain  that  he  will  come  to  be  a  most  valuable  kind  of 
utilitarian.  The  very  youth  which  was  genius,  was  ex- 
posed to  all  the  incursions  upon  imagination  and  hope  by 
the  spectacular,  which  those  faculties  of  youth  so  con- 
stantly invite  ;  and  Leo  X.  and  his  magnificence  were 
sure,  at  Ami's  age,  to  make  an  impression  overwhelming, 
if  only  fleeting,  which  only  the  meditation,  to  which  hap- 
pily he  was  addicted,  and  the  better  associations  at  the 
capital  to  which  he  was  privileged,  could  by  and  by  test, 
shatter,  or  even  obliterate. 

They  were  in  Bologna.  The  words  of  Lefevre,  whom 
Ami  had  heard  so  often,  as  he  compared  the  simplicity 
and  piety  of  Saint  Peter  with  the  luxuriousness  and  am- 
bition of  his  successor,  Leo  X.,  faded  out  of  the  mind  of 
the  imaginative  young  knight,  when  the  two  cardinal 
bishops,  who  at  an  earlier  hour  had  supported  Francis 
I.  as  he  entered  the  cathedral,  now  delicately  directed 
the  conversation  in  which  the  Holy  Father  took  such  a 
conspicuous  part,  toward  classical  themes,  and  stimulated 
his  Holiness  to  eloquent  remark  on  canon  law,  painting, 
and  music.  Ami,  with  the  chancellor  and  barons,  had 
previously  yielded  to  their  emotions  of  joy  in  tears,  as  the 
king,  whom  Bayard  had  rightly  called  "  the  handsomest 
ruler  in  the  world,"  attired  in  blue  velvet,  stood  where  the 
light  from  out  of  the  Italian  heavens  fell  upon  the  em- 
broidered fleurs-de-lis,  every  window  crowded  with  ad- 
miring faces,  ever}'  voice  shouting,  while  cannonading 
echoed  from  the  hills.  But  now  nothing  could  tell  of  his 
limitless  delight,  as  his  sovereign,  less  magnificently 
clothed,  but  more  regal  in  manifestations  of  intellectual 
power,  pursued  the  pontiff  with  intelligent  questions  as 
to  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam,  the  restoration  of  Greek  and 


POPE,  KING,  AND  KNIGHT.  243 

Latin,  the  printed  books  of  Aldus  Manutius,  —  especially 
the  "  Plato,"  which  had  been  dedicated  to  his  Holiness,  — 
and,  above  all,  certain  manuscripts  which  awaited  recov- 
ery in  the  Orient. 

It  was  a  golden  hour  for  Ami,  for  he  had  himself 
trained  his  sovereign  on  the  very  phrases  which  caught 
the  ear  of  the  Pope,  and  the  opinions  which  fascinated 
his  attention. 

While  others  of  the  king's  attendants  were  remember- 
ing how,  but  a  few  hours  before,  his  Majesty  had  held  up 
the  train  of  the  Pope's  robe  as  he  neared  the  altar ;  or 
how,  at  a  later  moment  in  the  ceremonies,  the  supreme 
Pontiff  had  washed  and  wiped  his  hands  with  the  aid  of 
water  and  napkins  presented  by  the  king,  Ami's  joy  was 
supreme  over  the  fact  that  the  two  rulers  had  spoken 
together  of  the  Royal  College,  at  whose  head  Francis  de- 
sired to  place  the  illustrious  Erasmus,  and  the  other  fact 
that  the  Holy  Father  had  conceived  a  plan  which  had 
just  been  intrusted  to  Raphael,  which  involved  nothing 
less  than  the  reproduction  in  the  form  of  a  gigantic  model 
of  Rome  at  the  hour  of  her  grandeur.  .  Indeed,  the  Pope 
had  so  fascinated  the  young  knight  with  his  learning  and 
elegance,  and  so  delighted  was  Ami  that  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  had  consented  to  proceed  to  France  with  the 
return  of  the  king,  that  he  did  not  think  of  a  single  ob- 
jection to  the  alliance  into  which  Francis  I.  had  entered. 

At  length  the  interview  concluded. 

The  Pragmatic  Sanction  of  1438  was  displaced  by  a 
Concordat.  Henceforward  the  king  should  be  less  de- 
pendent upon  ecclesiastical,  power  in  his  own  affairs  ;  the 
Pope,  on  the  other  hand,  became  possessed  of  the  wealth 
of  the  Church,  and  was  therefore,  in  his  own  way,  less 
dependent  upon  the  king. 

On  the  hand  of  Ami,  the  young  knight,  shone  a  gleam- 
ing emerald.  Leo  X.  had  showered  gifts  of  all  sorts  upon 
the  king's  favorites. 


244  MOM  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  It  is  for  scholarship  and  courage,"  said  the  pontiff. 

"  For  scholarship  and  courage,"  was  the  phrase  in  Ami's 
ears,  when  again  he  entered  the  palace  of  the  king,  and 
was  rejoiced  at  being  in  France  again. 

Duprat's  despotism  at  the  French  capital  was  growing 
more  pronounced.  Popular  hatred  had  begun  to  direct 
itself  against  him  and  Louise  of  Savoy.  Both  of  these 
were  irritated  beyond  measure  when  it  became  evident 
to  them  that  the  young  sovereign  had  grown  arrogant 
and  headstrong,  even  in  spite  of  the  chancellor  who  suf- 
fered most  from  the  self-sufficiency  of  the  king. 

Louise  of  Savoy,  who  never  despaired  of  controlling  her 
son,  knew  now  of  but  one  avenue  of  approach  by  which 
she  might  certainly  gain  the  king's  heart.  She  was  his 
mother,  but  she  was  anxious  to  be  his  sovereign ;  and 
confidently  measuring  the  strength  and  quality  of  his 
purpose  to  extend  the  number  of  the  ladies  at  the  court 
by  adding  the  beautiful  wife  of  Jean  de  Laval  de  Mont- 
morency,  Seigneur  de  Chateaubriand,  she  resolved  to 
carry  the  scheme  to  success. 

One  night  at  Amboise  a  note  was  intrusted  to  Ami  by 
the  king,  to  be  carried  to  a  jewel-worker  and  goldsmith. 
That  note  contained  a  ring,  with  instructions  that  another 
precisely  like  it  should  be  made  at  once.  On  his  return 
to  the  castle,  Ami  was  aware  that  two  rings  were  in  the 
packet ;  and  soon  he  was  assured  that  one  of  them  had 
been  secretly  placed,  where  the  day  before  it  had  been 
found,  in  the  room  of  the  Seigneur  de  Chateaubriand. 

Faithful  to  his  king,  yet  blinded  from  the  infamous 
secret,  Ami,  a  few  days  afterward,  saw  at  court  the  beau- 
tiful Francoise  de  Foix,  now  the  wife  of  Seigneur  de 
Chateaubriand ;  and  he  overheard  a  chagrined  and  out- 
raged husband  upbraid  her  with  the  words,  — 

"  I  never  sent  the  ring.  Oh,  sweet  lamb,  in  the  cave 
of  wolves  !  I  never  sent  that  ring  to  you  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

UNRENEWED    FRANCE. 

God  will  renew  the  world,  my  dear  William  ;  and  you  will  see  it. 

Lefevre  to  Far  el,  1515. 

BEFORE  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  had  fairly  inaugu- 
rated herself  as  the  favorite  of  Francis  I.,  even 
Louise  of  Savoy,  who  had,  as  we  have  seen,  favored  the  al- 
liance for  her  own  reasons,  was  disturbed  by  the  remarks 
which  flew  into  the  windows  of  Chambord  as  birds  of  ill 
omen.  Disdainful  as  she  was  of  the  authority  of  simple 
goodness,  the  face  of  the  wronged  husband  of  the  lovely 
Francois  de  Foix  followed  her,  —  a  fact  which  she  might 
have  put  away  from  her  mind  had  it  not  been  that  this 
man,  who  was  now  known  as  Comte  de  Chateaubriand,  had 
in  a  moment  of  gloom  told  his  sorrows  to  certain  of  the 
men  of  the  reforming  party,  who  at  a  certain  critical  junc- 
ture had  refused  to  forsake  their  king,  although  he  had 
tried  their  loyalty  to  the  extreme.  Louise  of  Savoy  and 
Duprat  were  confident  that,  with  the  complications  which 
now  harassed  the  throne  of  Francis  L,  he  could  not  af- 
ford to  lose  the  advice  and  labors  of  these  worthy  persons, 
who  preserved  a  warm  affection  for  their  queen  Claude, 
and  had  centred  in  their  sovereign  a  still  greater  hope  for 
a  better  system  of  domestic  government  in  France. 

"They    make    much    ado    about    morals,"    said    the 
offended  Louise    to  Duprat ;    "  and  the  worry   is   that 


246  AfO.YA'  AXD   KNIGHT. 

our  daughter,  even  Marguerite,  has  given  them  her 
sympathy." 

This  was  a  double-edged  complaint  which  she  was 
fond  of  employing  to  lacerate  into  activity  the  mind  of 
the  chancellor. 

"Certain  it  is,"  said  one  of  the  reforming  party  to 
Nouvisset,  "  that  even  the  King  of  France  cannot  hold  in 
hand  the  band  of  men  who  are  attacking  the  lives  of  the 
monks,  so  long  as  our  sovereign  himself  indulges  in  royal 
iniquities.  The  Chateaubriand  affair  is  a  disgrace  to 
us  all." 

At  length  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  herself  was  called 
upon  to  offer  any  suggestion  she  might  have  to  make  to 
the  determined  Louise,  as  to  how  this  intrigue  into  which 
Francis  I.  had  gone  heart  and  soul,  might  be  made  a 
little  more  palatable  to  the  French  public. 

"  I  have  it,"  said  she,  one  day,  as  in  the  distance  upon 
the  velvet  green  which  ran  down  by  terraces  to  the  river 
she  descried  Ami  practising  with  Francesco  at  swords,  — 
'•  I  have  it ;  my  plan  will  work." 

"  Let  me  hear  it  at  once,"  insisted  Louise  of  Savoy,  as 
she  drew  near,  her  small,  bright  eyes  sparkling  with  a 
proud  interest  in  the  old  scheme,  of  which  this  new  one 
was  a  suddenly  extemporized  part,  calculated  to  bolster 
up  what  had  not  quite  failed,  but  seemed  tottering. 

Mme.  de  Chateaubriand's  breast  yielded  a  sigh  of  relief. 
She  was,  nevertheless,  very  nervous.  Her  beautiful  hand 
grasped  tightly  the  blossom  of  heliotrope,  which  was  soon 
entirely  crushed.  She  placed  her  elegantly  slippered  foot 
upon  the  rich  carpet  with  spirit,  and  taking  the  shameless 
mother  of  the  king  close  within  a  tapestried  corner,  out 
of  whose  shadows  gleamed  the  flames  from  her  own  hot 
cheeks,  she  said,  — 

"Ami,  the  young  knight,  who  has  troubled  you  so 
much  with  his  dreaminess  in  statecraft  and  in  morals, 
may  be  made  to  serve  us.  Every  one  of  that  brainless 


UNRENEWED  FRANCE.  247 

company  who  ape  Farel  and  Lefevre,  and  quote  Eras- 
mus, is  fond  of  Ami,  believes  in  him,  thinks  he  can  do 
nothing  improper,  certainly  nothing  wrong.  We  pur- 
chase our  indulgences  of  the  Holy  Church;  and  thus 
we  aid  the  Holy  Father  to  fight  the  Turk  or  to  finish 
St.  Peter's.  Ami,  —  why,  he  gets  his,  if  he  needs  any,  by 
flattering  the  opposition.  He  is  flesh  and  blood  like 
others;  they  believe  he  can  do  nothing  impolitic  or 
wicked." 

"Well,  what  of  that?  "  inquired  the  impatient  Louise. 

"  This,  let  me  tell  you.  Ami  is,  as  I  have  said,  hu- 
man, like  other  men.  He  has  an  affectionate  heart, 
and  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  he  has  a  violent  current  of  love  within 
him,  for  he  has  been  foolish  about  the  Duchesse  d'Alen- 
con,  our  Marguerite." 

"  The  offensive  pretence  !  "  hissed  the  Comtesse  de 
Chateaubriand. 

"The  conceited  young  scoundrel!"  added  Margue- 
rite's mother,  with  spite. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  pursued  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand, 
"  the  man  is  very  tender  and  susceptible.  He  admires  a 
beautiful  and  intelligent  woman.  Set  a  flame  going  in 
such  a  breast  as  his,  and  it  will  communicate  itself  until 
it  burns  away  every  obstacle.  It  will  at  least  take  care  of 
itself.  He  is  bound  to  take  care  of  the  consequences." 

"  I  do  not  yet  understand  you,"  interjected  the  excited 
and  perplexed  Louise. 

"  You  shall,  gracious  madame  !  I  know,  and  so  do 
you  know,  that  if  Ami  were  in  love,  he  would  soon  find 
himself  where  he  would  have  a  new  set  of  opinions  about 
what  concerns  us." 

"  I  see,  ah,  I  see  !  "  and  the  bright,  small  eyes  of  the 
king's  mother  were  aglow  in  the  stern  face. 

"  If  Ami  were  entirely  wound  up  with  an  affair  of  the 
heart,  he  would  appreciate  the  circumstances  of  others. 


248  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

He  can  never  withstand  beauty  and  intellect ;  and  I  long 
for  the  day  when  he  shall  be  under  the  sway  of  love." 

'•  Ah,  truly  !  "  was  the  happy  sigh  of  Louise. 

••  I  have  this  in  mind.  In  my  old  home  "  —  there  was 
something  in  the  throat  of  the  beautiful  Mme.  de  Cha- 
teaubriand when  she  said  "  home,"  something  which  she 
swallowed  with  difficulty  —  "I  left  a  sweet  and  coy 
little  companion,  a  sister  by  adoption ;  and  there  is 
in  this  court  none  so  warm  or  exquisitely  lovely  in  her 
feeling  and  form  as  she.  Oh,  I  have  often  said  to  my 
heart,  when  Ami's  manliness  touched  it,  '  How  I  wish 
Astr£e  could  but  look  upon  you,  you  splendid  fellow  ! ' 
She  has  all  the  gifts  which  love  could  offer  to  the  most 
exacting  lover.  Delicious  girl  is  she  —  and  so  full  of 
light !  She  loves  books  also ;  and  if  the  blundering  priest 
to  whom  I  confessed  last,  is  not  already  making  a  mess 
out  of  her  faith  in  the  Holy  Church,  she  will  pour  through 
those  dark  eyes  of  hers  a  flood  of  radiance  upon  our 
affairs." 

"  You  mean,"  said  the  serious  Louise,  who  always  de- 
manded definiteness,  "  that  if  she  were  here,  she  is  so 
beautiful  and  so  scholarly  —  " 

"  No,  not  too  scholarly,"  interrupted  the  amiable 
favorite  ;  "  beautiful  and  winning,  so  lovable  —  " 

"That  Ami  would  surely  love  her?  How  do  you 
know  that  she  would  love  him?"  said  the  crafty  associate 
of  Duprat. 

"  Know  it?  Who  could  help  it?  I  almost  love  Ami 
for  myself." 

"I  think  him  a  detestable  prude,"  avowed  Louise; 
"  but  that  has  no  significance.  Then,  let  me  under- 
stand ;  if  these  critical  moralists  of  France  who  adore 
Ami,  saw  Ami  in  love  also,  —  and  you  could  bring  that 
about,  so  that  it  would  take  the  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
—  if  things  went  ill  they  would  find  in  him  such  a  cham- 
pion of  the  king  and  court  as  would  silence  them.  Ah, 


UNRENEWED  FRANCE.  249 

yes  !  I  see,  I  see.  Can  you  bring  this  girl  to  our  palace  ? 
Astree,  —  did  you  say  her  name  was  Astree  ?  What  a 
beautiful  name  !  Star  of  destiny  !  Can  you  get  her  into 
our  court?  " 

"  She  will  gladly  come ;  ay,  she  longed  for  the  court 
months  ago.  If  that  confessor  —  " 

Louise  of  Savoy  heard  only  the  first  sentence  of  this 
reply,  and  was  satisfied,  nay,  delighted,  as  she  averred, 
adding,  as  she  concluded  the  interview,  — 

"I  shall  tell  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon ;  but  she  must 
never  know  all  of  this  plan  of  ours.  I  will  tell  her  that  a 
beautiful  young  woman  is  coming,  and  that  it  .is  fitter  by 
far  that  hereafter  Ami  should  be  seen  with  her  than  with 
the  king's  sister.  Our  Marguerite  must  rid  herself  of 
Ami's  confidences ;  this  will  be  her  chance." 

In  the  twilight  Francis  I.  was  walking  with  Lautrec,  the 
brother  of  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  ;  and  while  Clement 
Marot,  the  poet,  was  making  verses  for  the  favorite  of 
Francis  I.  and  his  sister  Marguerite,  they  discussed  affairs 
of  state.  Days  had  come  and  gone,  while  Parliament 
had  stood  stubbornly  eying  the  Concordat,  and  the  wily 
Duprat  was  confiding  to  the  syndics  of  the  Sorbonne  his 
purposes  as  to  the  suppression  of  the  heresies  of  Lefevre 
and  Farel,  but  especially  those  of  Louis  Berquin. 

"  The  Pope  is  an  elegant  pagan.  The  king  found  that 
out  when  he  met  him  at  Bologna.  He  cares  for  little 
save  his  music  and  manuscripts.  But  for  that  testy  and 
spoiled  Ami  —  he  was  made  a  knight  without  due  order 
or  consideration  —  the  Holy  Father  would  have  won  his 
Majesty  to  become  a  crusader  against  the  Turk.  The 
crusade  must  be  against  the  heretics  in  France,"  said 
Duprat,  as  he  left  Amboise  to  go  to  Parliament. 


L 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE    WHITE    PEAK    AMID    DARK    CLOUDS. 

••  Where  huge  Taurus,  with  his  brow 
High  heaved  above  the  clouds,  eternally 
Keeps  watch  upon  the  sun,  uplifting  thought 
Beyond  the  sensual  and  the  sublunary, 
The  darkness  and  the  storm,  and  stir  of  earth 
To  the  unchanging  peacefulness  of  heaven." 

EFEVRE  !     The  name  is  associated  with  prayer 


or  heard  or  dreamed  it.     Oh,  I  do  remember ! " 

The  eyelashes  of  bewitching  beauty  fell ;  the  delicate 
hands  were  lifted  to  her  cheeks ;  the  graceful  arms  held 
up  a  head  of  black,  glossy  hair ;  and  she  was  silent  until, 
with  a  self-mastering  change  of  attitude,  she  sat  more 
nearly  upright,  when  caresses  of  light  and  warmth  came 
upon  her  calm  face,  while  she  was  saying,  — 

"  I  heard  the  confessor,  to  whom  I  went  at  the  last 
with  my  heartbreak  at  leaving  home,  —  I  heard  him 
speak  the  name  Lefevre.  He  called  him  '  beloved,'  and 
he  told  me  to  listen  to  Lefevre's  wisdom.  But  the  sor- 
rows of  departing  from  my  home  overthrew  the  recol- 
lection, and  I  have  heard  no  one  at  this  court  speak 
of  him  until  this  moment." 

•  No,  they  are  not  likely  to  talk  much  of  such  a  fear- 
less saint  as  he.  He  is  too  likely  to  trouble  them  about 


THE    WHITE    PEAK  AMID  DARK  CLOUDS,      2$l 

the  matter  of  duties,  morals,  and  the  like,"  said  the 
young  man,  who  sat  with  her  under  the  reddened  trellis 
at  the  end  of  a  long  vista  of  olives,  whose  verdure  did 
not  entirely  hide  a  marvellous  perspective,  into  which 
they  both  were  gazing  with  dreaming  eyes. 

They  were  Ami  and  Astree,  —  together  alone  for  the 
first  time.  Only  two  months  had  passed  since  Louise  of 
Savoy  and  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  had  hit  upon  a  scheme 
for  hiding  a  questionable  affection  beneath  the  attach- 
ment which  each  was  sure  would  spring  up  between 
these  souls.  And  now  Francis  I.,  who  more  than  ever 
had  need  to  desire  it,  was  congratulating  the  royal  favor- 
ite, as  they  sipped  their  wine,  that  things  were  going 
well. 

Alone  together,  after  what  an  experience  of  agony  and 
distrust !  What  wonder  was  it  that  as  soon  as  possible 
Ami  had  hurried  their  talk  to  Lefevre,  saint  and  hero  ! 
What  marvel  that  as  soon  as  Astree  recalled  associations 
of  faith  and  purity  in  its  connection,  she  felt  it  to  be  a 
tower  of  defence ;  and  she  lifted  her  womanly  eyes  to 
find  benedictions  in  the  eyes  of  him  who  had  spoken  it. 

A  fortnight  before,  Astree,  duly  attended,  had  arrived 
in  the  capital,  and  had  at  once  been  made  a  welcome 
guest  at  the  palace.  Soon  she  was  persuaded  to  become 
one  of  the  court  of  the  Queen  Claude.  Astre"e's  memory 
of  the  woman  known  at  court  as  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand 
was  not  so  pleasant  as  it  would  have  been  had  the  latter 
never  reminded  Astree,  in  those  other  days  when  her 
charms  seemed  annoying,  that  she  was  only  an  adopted 
member  of  the  household.  Indeed,  Astree  was  as  en- 
tirely surprised  at  the  graceful  recognition  given  to  her 
now  by  the  comtesse,  as  she  had  been  by  the  affectionate 
message  which  the  former  had  answered  by  appearing  at 
court.  Little  did  Astree  dream  of  the  terrible  exigency 
which  had  made  such  a  letter  easy  for  the  comtesse  to 
write  ! 


252  AfO.YA'  A.\'D   KXIGIIT. 

Something  distasteful  the  solitary  and  thoughtful  girl 
knew  was  in  the  air  of  the  court  before  she  had  breathed 
it  for  a  day.  The  Comte  de  Chateaubriand,  —  where 
was  he  at  moments  when  the  luxuriant  beauty  of  his  wife 
exhaled  its  fragrant  balm  in  the  presence  of  the  king? 
Queen  Claude, —  where  was  she  in  the  hours  in  \\hirh 
Astree  found  herself  with  the  young  knight  Ami,  accom- 
panied, as  they  had  been,  under  the  pale  lilacs  and  across 
the  soft  lawns  by  the  sovereign  and  the  comtesse  ? 

These  queries  came  up  to  her  thought  like  ragged 
rocks  out  of  the  midst  of  a  magical  lake,  breaking  up  and 
distorting  the  beautiful  sheen.  They  grew  still  more 
threatening  when  Astr^e  recalled  to  mind  the  words  of 
the  confessor  at  home,  who  she  noticed  hardly  listened 
to  the  words  she  spoke  to  him,  so  pure  and  true  did  he 
believe  her  to  be ;  who  however,  instead,  told  her  with 
loving  seriousness  of  the  evils  of  the  world  and  the 
temptations  of  the  French  capital. 

••  Would  that  his  Majesty  were  a  more  serious  man  !  " 
he  had  said  sadly  to  Astree,  as  he  bade  her  farewell. 

Still  more  had  AstreVs  nervousness  increased,  when 
she  was  gravely  told  by  the  Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand 
that  she  must  take  the  world  much  as  she  found  it ;  that 
she  could  not  be  her  adviser  in  many  things,  owing  to 
her  relations  to  the  court,  and  that  she  knew  of  no  one 
who  would  be  so  likely  to  befriend  her  as  the  young 
knight  Ami. 

What  could  Astree  do  in  such  a  moment  as  she  was 
sure  must  come? 

That  night  the  soft  coverings  which  hid  the  costly 
woods  from  which  the  rich  furnishings  of  Astree's  room 
had  been  made,  were  torn  away,  and  everything  was  as 
ugly  and  hard  as  iron.  The  brilliant  candelabra  grew 
dull ;  and  she  even  condemned  the  nightingale  for  his 
presence  without,  when  his  song  floated  through  the 
cypress-trees  and  vineyards  into  her  window,  bringing  with 


THE    WHITE  PEAK  AMID  DARK  CLOUDS.      2$$ 

it  fresh  fragrances  and  a  thousand  excuses  for  the  hot 
tears  which  gushed  forth  as  she  threw  back  the  cloud  of 
black  hair  about  her  and  cried  for  home. 

"  Something  about  this  gorgeous  place  is  so  false,  so 
false  !  I  seem  to  be  stepping  nearer  to  a  plank  which 
will  give  way,  or  about  to  gather  a  flower  which  will 
poison  me.  Everything  seems  false,  —  everything?  "  and 
she  looked  out  into  the  moonlight,  which  wove  a  splendor 
around  her  form,  as  it  panted  sleeplessly  upon  the  furs 
which  had  been  thrown  over  her  couch.  "  Everything 
seems  false  here  —  except  the  knight  Ami." 

Astre"e  had  said  it  at  last,  and  with  the  saying  of  it  there 
came  a  reflection  that  something  solid  remained  to  her 
in  this  transforming  life  ;  and  with  that  reflection  she  went 
to  sleep,  to  wake  in  the  morning  half  ashamed,  yet  not 
altogether  troubled,  because  she  had  gone  to  sleep  the 
night  before,  her  lips  moving  with  the  name  of  a  young 
knight  whom  she  had  seen  but  for  a  day. 

That  one  day,  however,  was  invested  with  many  of  the 
profoundest  meanings  of  eternity.  It  lay,  in  the  souls  of 
both  Ami  and  Astree  like  an  awful  cloud-bank  over  a 
parched  desert.  Lightnings  and  thunders  might  be 
hidden  within  it ;  perhaps  Only  sweet  rains.  It  was  a 
dreadful  menace  of  doom,  or  it  was  the  very  breast  of 
the  Infinite  Love.  Neither  knew  which  of  these  that  day 
would  turn  out  to  be ;  both  of  them  had  looked  back  to 
it,  however,  and  confessed  its  resistless  charm. 

Louise  of  Savoy,  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand,  Francis  I., 
perhaps  even  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon,  who  now  under- 
stood the  design  of  the  three,  could  have  saved  these 
two  souls  the  scorching  fire  which  at  first  breathed  indig- 
nation and  then  revenge,  —  a  fire  which  they  put  within 
hours  otherwise  sure  to  have  been  the  gladdest  hours 
of  their  lives.  But  they  could  not  have  saved  these  in- 
nocent souls  and  yet  have  operated  their  plan.  A  base 
love,  by  whomsoever  abetted,  is  cruel  above  all  things. 


254  MO.YA-  .-MY>    h'XIGHT. 

No  complete  chronicle  can  be  made  of  that  day,  be- 
cause no  record  can  be  made  of  such  a  thrill  of  joy  as 
Ami  felt  when  he  saw  this  modest  and  yet  surprisingly 
beautiful  young  woman  outshine  the  exquisite  Margue- 
rite, whose  intellectual  hospitality  had  invited  her  to  the 
largest  liberty,  in  talking  of  the  men  of  the  reform  and 
the  poet  Clement  Marot.  Ami  had  not  been  present 
at  the  first,  when  the  conversation  began,  and  so  found 
himself  at  once  in  the  presence  of  a  creature  of  such 
brightness  and  dash,  at  once  so  modest  and  so  skilful, 
that  he  forgot  to  notice  the  loveliness  which  enwrapped 
her  as  she  spoke.  He  had,  however,  noticed  the  look  of 
utter  disconsolateness  which  overspread  the  sallow  feat- 
ures of  the  king's  mother  as  this  engaging  woman,  whom 
he  now  knew  as  a  guest  of  the  queen,  —  who  was  always 
unaccountably  absent,  —  sat  pronouncing  the  names  of 
those  men  in  France  whose  influence  Duprat  was  vainly 
seeking  to  abolish.  Even  the  Comtesse  de  Chateau- 
briand did  not  quite  excel,  as  usual,  in  piquancy  and  de- 
lightful remark,  as  she  searched  for  the  glances  of  the 
king. 

Soon,  however,  the  gracious  Duchesse  d'Alencon  had 
allowed  Ami  and  Astr£e  the  privilege  of  the  balcony 
upon  which  they  had  been  sitting,  from  which  the  other 
members  of  the  royal  party  had  retired.  In  the  glad 
recognition  which  the  knight  made  of  such  charms,  asso- 
ciated with  a  more  than  womanly  regard  for  literature  and 
reformers,  he  was  unaware  of  his  being  alone  with  her. 
Even  when  the  pale  shadows  became  longer,  he  was 
utterly  unconscious  of  any  stranger  feeling  than  that  of 
having  met  a  most  lovely  woman  with  whom  he  seemed 
always  on  the  point  of  being  at  ease,  with  whom  he 
constantly  found  himself  in  painful  embarrassment. 

Oh,  if  he  could  have  known  that  she  also  was  sure  that 
a  poison  hung  in  the  air,  he  had  grasped  her  and  borne 
her  au 


THE    WHITE  PEAK  AMID  DARK  CLOUDS-      255 

There  appeared  to  be  enough  within  sight  to  talk  about, 
but  the  air  was  unpropitious.  A  brother  of  hers  he  had 
seen  dying,  —  dead,  at  Marignano.  Her  tears  would  have 
been  jewels  upon  her  womanhood  had  not  a  foul  breath, 
which  somehow  stole  in  from  some  unseen  corner,  dried 
them  upon  her  eyes,  while  they  tried  to  talk.  That 
awful  silence  which  thrusts  itself  in  like  a  sword  when 
young  souls  are  innocently  feeling  for  one  another  in  the 
darkness  and  yet  are  not  alone,  came  between  them ; 
and  the  light  which  came  again  to  their  faces,  as  they 
found  another  agreeable  topic,  was  hot  like  the  breath  of 
a  sirocco.  Each  was  sure,  at  length,  that  an  awful  doubt 
possessed  the  other ;  and  in  such  an  air  the  pain  of  de- 
parture is  keener  than  that  which  comes  with'  remaining 
and  with  bearing  it  all  bravely.  Something  so  mechani- 
cal haunted  them,  as  they  still  sat  alone. 

In  the  limpid  light  which  fell  upon  her  slender  arm 
and  white  shoulders,  and  through  the  persuasive  airs 
which  came  through  the  myrtle  and  cypress  trees  to  play 
about  his  fine  features,  there  was  a  hard,  predetermined 
something  which  each  felt,  as  if  each  heard  a  creaking 
of  wheels.  A  mighty  respect  each  was  finding  for  the 
other,  —  and  more,  it  was  accompanied  with  sensations 
more  tender  by  far ;  but  neither  could  fail  to  feel  a  grow- 
ing rage  at  what  made  further  speech  impossible. 

How  they  parted  that  night  neither  knew.  Only  a 
vague  memory  remained.  Astre"e  had  gone  to  sleep  with 
his  name  upon  her  lips.  Ami  had  tossed  himself  into 
a  dream,  in  which  were  delirious  words  of  affection, 
even  languorous  caresses  and  rushes  of  bl&od  to  his 
face,  which  woke  him.  Then  he  slept  again,  —  the 
bright,  small  eyes  of  Louise  of  Savoy  and  the  faces  of 
the  king  and  the  comtesse  looking  down  upon  his 
dream  of  love. 

The  days  which  lay  between  that  hour  and  this  in 
which  we  have  found  them  talking  of  Lefevre  the  Re- 


256  JAM'A"  AXD  K'NJGHT. 

former,  had  been  days  of  revelation.  Ami  had  found 
out  for  himself  the  wicked  plot  which  contemplated  the 
disgrace  of  both  Astre"e  and  himself ;  and  now  he  saw,  or 
thought  he  saw,  within  the  hateful  gloom  a  soul  to  whom 
he  was  bound  in  the  holy  secret  of  knightly  love. 

The  reddening  leaves  upon  the  trellis  were  shaking 
with  the  song  which  came  swelling  forth  from  the  tiny 
throat  which  yonder  in  the  nodding  pine  was  bursting 
with  melody;  and  much  as  Ami  loved  the  name  of 
Lefevre,  his  soul  was  a  tremble  with  a  name  which 
he  had  just  accustomed  his  lips  to  pronounce  alone,  — 
Astref  ! 

As  she  went  on  to  tell  him  what  the  confessor  —  who, 
as  the  comtesse  feared,  had  planted  the  seeds  of  the 
Reformation  within  Astr^e  —  had  said  to  her  about  Le- 
fevre, her  face  became  animated  and  her  lips  dropped  sen- 
tences which  to  Ami  were  far  more  eloquent  than  those 
of  the  Ciceronians  themselves.  Not,  however,  until  she 
began,  in  a  tone  half  confessing  to  him,  half  reassuring  to 
herself,  to  tell  him  of  the  fears  with  which  she  had  set  out 
toward  the  capital,  did  her  voice  seize  his  very  heart.  It 
was  so  piteous  and  so  true  that  the  true  knight  was 
roused. 

"  The  Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand  said  that  I  could 
trust  my  questions  and  fears  to  you ;  and  yet  I  fear  that 
this  is  not  right." 

Ami  saw  the  lips  labor  and  the  eyes  grow  misty  as  she 
hesitated  ;  and  then,  like  a  white  lightning-streak  from 
a  black  cloud,  there  came  the  words  :  "  The  damnation 
they  meant* shall  fail,  except  to  them  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  !  "  she  cried  softly,  and  looked  as  if  she 
would  have  crept  somewhere  for  safety. 

"  Not  of  me,  I  beg  you  !  "  and  the  stalwart  knight  rose 
to  his  full  height,  looking  as  tenderly  as  he  did  truly 
into  her  very  soul. 

\o;  not  of  you!    But  I  wish  I  dare  feel  that  no 


THE    WHITE  PEAK  AMID  DARK  CLOUDS.      257 

harm  was    intended.      The    comtesse   asks    me   strange 
questions." 

Ami  thought  how  the  king  had  asked  him  of  his  opin- 
ion of  the  "  star;  "  and  for  the  first  time,  for  a  moment, 
the  knight  hated  the  king. 

He  understood  it  all  now.  Within  the  heat  of  his 
knightly  ire  his  eye  grew  prophetic.  He  could  see  within 
this  woman  a  future  dear  beyond  all  else  to  him.  As 
she  went  on  to  tell  him  of  her  sorrow  at  finding  the  court 
so  debased,  the  negligence  visited  on  the  queen,  the  ab- 
sence of  the  Comte  de  Chateaubriand,  the  treatment  of 
Bourbon,  Ami  saw  how  surely  within  that  incomparable 
beauty  of  form  and  face  dwelt  a  soul  whose  spiritual  life 
would  make  this  loveliness  its  throne.  Without  a  spirit- 
ual life  she  seemed  too  lovely,  too  fascinating. 

"  Only  an  adopted  sister,"  said  he  to  his  heart,  as  never 
the  Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand  had  said  it  to  hers. 
"  Yes ;  she  has  something  which  the  comtesse  never  had. 
A  saint  may  be  even  as  beautiful." 

Ami  saw  in  Astree  —  for  he  was  far  from  being  insen- 
sible to  her  physical  charms  —  that  exquisite  profile  so 
instinct  with  warm  sentiment,  and  that  honest  beautiful- 
ness  of  eye  which  illuminated  his  conscience.  It  was 
as  different  from  the  dull  lassitude  in  the  eyes  about  the 
court,  as  is  the  free,  stimulating  scent  of  a  rose  from  the 
sickly  odor  which  often  infects  the  hot  air. 

On  and  on  she  talked,  with  innocent  grace,  answering 
Ami's  questions,  proposing  others,  until  each  saw  that 
they  had  escaped  the  prepared  meshes. 

"You  are  terrified  with  the  prospect  of  being  en- 
slaved here.  Are  you  willing  to  trust  your  whole  self  to 
any  one?"  he  ventured. 

She  looked  out  into  the  sky. 

"  How  different  it  all  is  from  the  indolent  voluptuous- 
ness of  this  court !  "   he  thought,  as  she  seemed  to  be 
searching  for  God. 
VOL.  i. — 17 


.If OX A~  AND  KNIGHT. 

The  sky  was  like  a  green,  dreamy  sea.  Swallows 
twittered  about  the  red  leaves,  some  of  which  were 
falling  through  the  sighing  warmth  of  the  late  summer. 
Nature  everywhere  was  taking  a  long,  deep,  languid 
breath,  from  the  Infinite  Love.  The  vista,  edged  with 
foliage,  was  becoming  a  blurred  memory,  as  he  lis- 
tened for  her  voice  which  had  vibrated  in  such  tender- 
ness. He  knew  she  was  as  simple  as  a  child,  and  that 
she  knew  not  what  had  led  her  to  him  amid  all  this 
cursed  doubt. 

Why  should  he  stand  and  burn  with  such  a  hope  which 
might  be  such  a  rapture  ?  She  had  not  understood  him, 
he  was  sure.  "  She  wonders  if,  after  all,  any  man  here 
is  trustworthy,"  divined  Ami. 

Ah,  Ami !  she  has  understood.  Yes ;  she  only  won- 
ders if,  after  all,  any  man  here  is  worthy  of  trust.  She 
is  trying  to  escape  the  cynicalness  which  Comtesse  de 
Chateaubriand's  experiences  have  just  been  teaching 
her,  despite  the  compliments  that  lady  has  lavished  on 
you  ! 

"You  are  not  willing  to  be  enslaved?"  faltered  the 
knight,  never  so  certain  of  how  weak  he  was. 

"  I  am  willing  to  be  enslaved  in  your  love,  in  order 
that  I  may  be  free,"  she  said ;  and  at  once  the  slender 
hands  clasped  his,  as  they  stood  close  together  under 
the  reddening  leaves. 

"  Astre"e  !  "  said  he,  his  lips  still  warm  with  the  glow  of 
her  own,  "  I  remember  that  once,  when  I  was  a  little 
child,  away,  far  away  from  this  place,  I  saw  the  damp 
and  chill  clouds  gather  about  the  little  hills  and  hide 
them.  My  father  —  poor  man!  he  was  cruelly  slain  — 
carried  me,  led  me,  then  carried  me  again,  up  and  on, 
until  we  two  looked  down  on  it  all,  —  the  whole  cloud- 
covered  realm.  Then  we  saw  a  white  peak,  like  silver 
for  gleaming  purity,  rising  out  of  the  dark  mist.  It  had 
passed  out  of  my  mind  until  just  now." 


THE    WHITE  PEAK  AMID   DARK  CLOUDS.      259 

"  Mayhap,"  lisped  the  joyous  Astree,  as  she  stopped 
again  with  him  under  the  white  poplars  and  looked 
proudly  upon  the  pure  lines  in  his  face,  —  "  mayhap  our 
Father,  God,  has  led  us  both  above  the  sordid  mists 
which  were  sent  to  envelop  us  ;  and  we  now  behold  com- 
ing up  out  of  all  that  murkiness  a  love  as  pure  as  it  is 
true." 

They  hesitated,  each  soul  drinking  in  the  new  luxury 
of  plighted  love ;  and  Ami  seemed  to  have  sipped  elo- 
quence from  lips  which  knew  not  their  own  secret  power, 
as  he  said :  "  Astre"e  !  my  darling  Astre"e  !  I  ought  not 
to  have  waited.  I  was  afraid  of  you.  Oh,  you  sweet 
one,  you  seemed  too  beautiful !  The  very  flavor  of  your 
loveliness  is  now  my  soul's  hope.  You  have  dreamy 
eyes,  my  own  !  But  I  shall  keep  the  one  great  dream 
there  —  " 

Both  of  the  lovers  were  startled,  and  instantly  they 
were  in  hiding. 

They  saw  the  King  of  France  and  Mme.  de  Chateau- 
briand coming.  Astre"e  crept  so  close  to  Ami,  as  these 
passed  by,  that  she  could  feel  the  throb  of  Ami's  heart. 
Each  shuddered  at  the  abandon  of  the  comtesse.  The 
wind,  which  had  just  sprung  up,  had  a  voice  of  pity  as  it 
wailed  through  the  larches  and  lifted  the  long  black  hair 
of  the  king.  His  eyes  were  languorous,  as  they  sought 
to  mark  the  decline  of  the  sun  which  still  empurpled  the 
grass.  Each  was  silent. 

A  moment  before,  under  the  acacias,  the  shivering 
sovereign  had  said  to  his  favorite :  "  It  has  all  gone 
wrong  for  us,  all  right  for  them.  Ami  loves  Astree 
deeply  and  honorably.  She  also  is  bound  to  him  in 
the  purest  affection.  Our  affair  cannot  hide  behind 
them.  We  must  never  break  two  such  hearts.  Ours 
must  throw  no  shadow  over  their  rapturous  love. 
They  will  come  back  to  the  palace  to-night  —  believe 
me  !  —  betrothed." 


260 


MOM  AND  KXIGHT. 


"  Rid  your  Majesty's  self  of  him  ! "  she  had  replied 
half  in  anger. 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot,  if  I  will,"  said  the  French 
King.  "  The  astrologer  said  it.  Ah,  sweet  love  !  the  as- 
trologer told  me ;  and  Marignano  proved  the  astrologer 
to  be  a  seer." 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

EASTER    AT    GLASTONBURY. 

The  chains  which  cramp  us  most  are  those  which  weigh  on  us  least. 

MME.  SWETCHINE. 

ON  the  day  upon  which  Francis  I.,  after  incredible 
hardships,  had  reached  the  plains  of  Saluzzo,  Pope 
Leo  X.  made  Thomas  Wolsey  cardinal ;  and  at  the  very 
moment  upon  which  Ami,  the  French  knight,  on  the  way 
to  Bologna  was  annoying  his  sovereign  with  what  is  yet 
called  theoretical  politics,  Vian,  the  English  monk,  was 
attending  the  Abbot  of  Glastonbury,  as  he  assisted  the 
Abbot  of  Westminster  in  carrying  the  red  hat  to  the 
high  altar.  Unimpressed  with  the  din  of  bells  and  voices 
which  made  all  London  tremble,  unmoved  by  the  mag- 
nificence of  Wolsey  and  the  Te  Deum  which  had  just 
ceased  to  sound  in  his  ears,  Vian  was  beyond  meas- 
ure delighted  to  reflect  that  the  sermon  was  preached 
by  no  less  a  representative  of  "the  new  learning"  than 
Dr.  John  Colet,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's. 

For  the  best  of  reasons  this  wearied  young  man  felt 
himself  enthralled  at  once  with  admiration  for  the  newly 
made  cardinal  Wolsey,  who  had  doubtless  selected  the 
preacher. 

"  Could  his  Holiness  Leo  X.  have  known  that  the  man 
whom,  with  Erasmus  and  Sir  Thomas  More,  the  Abbot 
of  Glastonbury  had  distrusted  as  heretical  almost  beyond 


262  MONK'  AND  KNIGHT. 

toleration,  was  to  preach  this  sermon?"  thought  Vian, 
as  they  walked  through  the  western  door  toward  the 
banquet-hall. 

"  Leo  X.  is  only  a  delightful  pagan  in  the  position  of  a 
great  Christian."  These  words  of  Fra  Giovanni,  which 
had  been  spoken  to  his  uneasy  innocence  at  Glastonbury, 
often  came  back  to  Vian,  when  in  later  days  he  had  to 
know  more  of  both  Pope  and  Cardinal. 

Before  the  days  of  rejoicing  at  London  were  concluded, 
Vian  was  made  aware  that  the  good  Abbot  Richard 
Beere  himself  had  less  antipathy  to  "  the  new  learning  " 
than  had  manifested  itself  on  previous  occasions.  Per- 
haps a  long  conversation  which  that  spiritual  dignitary 
held  with  the  new  cardinal  reconciled  him  in  some 
greater  measure  to  the  schemes  of  the  scholars,  as  it 
certainly  did  render  Richard  Beere  in  various  ways  an 
earnest  supporter  of  the  prelate,  who  at  that  hour  could 
be  reached  only  by  passing  through  many  tapestried 
rooms,  and  who,  attired  as  he  was  in  a  violet-colored 
rochet  half  covered  with  a  tippet  of  sable,  was  surrounded 
by  gentlemen  in  crimson  velvet  overhung  with  chains 
of  gold,  while  he  amused  himself  with  statecraft,  costly 
portraiture,  or  exquisite  music. 

'•Ah!"  said  Abbot  Richard,  "my  son  Vian,  I  like 
the  new  cardinal.  He  —  the  saints  forefend  it !  —  but  he 
will  at  some  time  demand  you  from  Glastonbury.  I  have 
oftentimes  been  harsh  in  my  words  with  the  men  of  '  the 
new  learning.'  Even  yet  I  must  keep  heresy  out  of  my 
abbey,  though  Master  Colet  speaks  eloquently." 

Vian  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  many  things  within  these 
nebulous  remarks. 

Had  the  sub-prior  and  Ammonius  at  Cambridge  really 
dreamed  of  getting  him  into  Wolsey's  service,  because 
the  abbot  had  given  up  making  out  of  him  a  good 
ecclesiastic  ? 

Was  the   Lord  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  at  last  so  con- 


EASTER  AT  GLASTONBURY.  263 

vinced  that  the  men  of  "  the  new  learning  "  meant  well 
and  did  wisely  for  England  and  the  Church,  that  he  en- 
joyed John  Colet? 

Any  answer  to  either  of  these  questions  meant  much  to 
our  thoughtful  and  unquiet  monk. 

It  is  true  that  Vian  and  the  box  which  he  and  the  sub- 
prior  brought  back  with  them  from  Lutterworth  to  Glas- 
tonbury  had  done  much  in  that  sacred  shrine  of  Catholic 
orthodoxy  to  foster  a  desire  in  the  soul  of  its  revered 
head  for  some  sort  of  relief.  Not  a  day  had  passed  after 
Vian's  return  until  Fra  Giovanni,  who  had  used  his  accus- 
tomed whip  upon  the  abbot  to  obtain  the  office,  had 
become  sole  custodian  of  the  Aldines  and  the  Wycliffe 
letters.  That  signified  trouble  to  Richard  Beere.  He 
was  aware  that  something  either  unduly  salacious  or  very 
unorthodox  —  at  all  events,  something  revolutionary  of  his 
pious  plans  —  had  come  into  the  abbey  in  such  a  way  as 
to  threaten  no  end  of  discomfort.  But  he  was  powerless. 
He  could  humiliate  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  but  he  could 
not  deny  Fra  Giovanni. 

Easter  Sunday,  1517,  found  Vian,  whose  talent  for 
music  and  whose  excellent  voice  had  made  him  promi- 
nent in  all  that  related  to  the  festival  ceremonies,  weary 
with  the  exercises  of  the  seven  days  preceding. 

"Ah!"  said  the  wheezing  Giovanni,  whom  nothing 
but  a  very  severe  attack  of  asthma  could  entirely  silence, 
"it  is  well  for  your  voice  that  pious  souls  have  com- 
manded stillness  in  the  cloisters  for  three  days.  The 
dumb  saints  are  the  holier,  at  all  events." 

"  It  is  not  what  cometh  into  a  man,"  said  Vian,  "  but 
what  goeth  out,  that  defileth." 

"  True,"  gasped  the  Italian.  "  Since  you  came  from 
Lutterworth,  a  good  deal  of  heresy  has  been  going  into 
the  brethren  here.  It  would  ruin  Glastonbury  to  have 
it  all  come  out.  Those  letters  of  that  brazen  heretic 
John  Wycliffe  have  been  half  worn  out  by  the  monks, 


264  MOXK  A.\D   K'MGHT. 

who  often  have  not  time  to  stuff  them  beneath  their 
stoles  carefully,  when  they  hear  Abbot  Richard's  foot- 
steps or  my  orthodox  wheezing.  Vian,  nothing  has  done 
so  much  for  the  holy  faith  in  Glastonbury  for  an  hundred 
years,  save  the  blooming  thorn  and  my  bundle  of  birchen 
rods,  as  has  my  whistling  windpipe.  I  have  seen  many 
a  brother  put  heresy  under  his  foot,  —  that  is,  I  have 
beheld  him  stuff  one  of  those  letters  of  John  Wycliffe  in 
his  shoe  when  I  came  within  hearing.  It  is  a  great  gain 
for  orthodoxy,  that  after  the  bell-ringing  these  half-grown 
saints  of  ours  have  to  unshoe  themselves  and  walk  bare- 
foot in  the  procession.  John  Wycliffe  had  never  so 
many  pious  walks,  as  he  has  had  since  you  brought  him 
to  Richard  Beere's  abbey.  Did  you  find  your  tongue 
before  Tierce?" 

Vian  knew  that  the  sly  old  Giovanni  referred  to  the 
scene  of  Monday  before  entering  chapter.  It  was  the 
annual  book-gathering.  He  himself  had  been  frightened 
nearly  out  of  his  wits,  for  fear  of  losing  some  of  the  pre- 
cious books;  and  he  had  been  amused  almost  beyond 
expression  at  monks  who  were  getting  their  souls  ready 
for  the  prostrate  psalms. 

The  keeper  of  the  library  had  laid  out  upon  the  carpet 
in  the  chapter  every  book,  as  the  abbot  supposed, 
which  helped  to  constitute  the  limited  but  priceless  col- 
lection from  which  the  monks  could  borrow.  Every 
borrower  brought  with  him  the  book  which  had  been 
loaned  to  him.  The  sentence  of  the  Benedictine  rule  was 
solemnly  read.  Giovanni's  eyes  twinkled  with  humor 
as  the  sermon  proceeded,  which  was  clearly  directed 
against  the  reading  of  such  books  as  might  offend  piety 
or  uproot  the  faith.  The  old  man  wheezed  so  immod- 
erately when  the  keeper  read  the  list  of  books  loaned  to 
the  various  monks,  that  each  monk  was  reminded  of  the 
many  times  in  the  course  of  the  year  on  which  the 
asthma  of  the  Italian  had  suddenly  precluded  him  from 


EASTER  AT  GLASTONBURY.  26$ 

enjoying  a  stolen  literary  feast  with  one  of  Vian's  "  Lutter- 
worth  Collection,"  as  they  had  named  it. 

"  It  was  amazing  to  see  how  many  of  the  brethren  who 
had  not  read  the  books  which  they  had  borrowed  had  to 
ask  for  pardon,"  remarked  Vian,  complacently,  as  he 
afterward  spoke  of  the  day. 

"  Every  one  of  them,"  laughed  Giovanni,  "  had  read 
one  of  the  Wycliffe  letters ;  and  some  had  read  '  Piers 
Plowman  '  and  the  '  Praise  of  Folly '  twice.  I  had  to 
flog  the  abbot  himself  last  year,  for  laughing  at  the  story 
of  the  Mendicant  friars.  I  caught  him  reading  it  on  the 
day  of  the  Feast  of  the  She-Ass.  Abbot  Richard  was  not 
thinking  about  his  Lord  riding  that  blameless  animal, 
when  I  entered  and  saw  him  quite  excited.  He  in- 
stantly dropped  the  book  and  lifting  his  eyes  to  heaven, 
and  looking  as  if  the  ass  were  speaking,  as  you  know  the 
animal  does  in  the  procession  when  Balaam  spurs  her 
on,  he  said,  "  Why  do  you  hurt  me  so  with  your  spurs?  " 

Vian  could  not  repress  his  merriment  at  this ;  but 
Giovanni  continued  :  "  I  said,  '  My  Lord  Abbot,  /  am 
not  Balaam  spurring  you ;  but,  for  all  I  know,  you  may 
be  the  other  — '  whereat,  rallying  from  the  first  bewilder- 
ment into  which  I  had  plunged  him,  he  became  furious 
with  holy  rage  at  me." 

"  What !  "   said  Vian  ;  "  Giovanni,  did  you  flog  him  ?  " 

"That  I  did;  why  not?"  cried  the  old  hypocrite,  as 
he  choked  with  laughter.  "  I  shall  not  allow  the  Abbot 
of  Glastonbury  to  read  such  pernicious  books  on  such 
holy  days,  whatever  the  rest  of  you  do.  I  must  keep 
the  head  of  this  sacred  institution  from  the  perils  of 
heresy." 

Vian's  services  to  the  Lord  Abbot  Richard  on  that 
Easter  Sunday  were  most  hearty  and  numerous.  He  was 
in  an  unsettled  state  of  mind.  He  even  hoped  that  this 
would  prove  to  be  his  last  Easter  in  Glastonbury ;  and 
much  as  he  loved  the  holy  shrine,  all  the  world  without 


266  A/OA'A'  A\D   K'XICHT. 

was  calling  him  with  a  voice  which  he  had  never  heard 
before. 

In  the  procession  to  the  crucifix  after  I^auds,  he  walked 
with  solemn  worshipfulness,  thinking  of  the  changes 
which  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  unchanged  power  of 
his  Redeemer's  cross.  Reason  in  so  young  a  man  has 
its  struggle  with  imagination,  within  the  eye  and  ear, 
because  through  them  come  the  strongest  appeals  to  this 
picture- making  and  picture-discerning  faculty.  One 
seems  to  have  been  so  sure  of  one's  faith,  which  was 
really  the  faith  or  perhaps  only  the  belief  of  some  one 
else,  that  when  to  the  tossed  soul,  by  some  repeated 
scene,  the  era  of  unquestioning  acquiescence  is  brought 
back,  there  is  usually  a  disposition  to  leave  the  uneasy 
task  of  thought  for  the  balmy  passiveness  of  memory. 

So  Vian  felt,  especially  as  they  proceeded  to  perform 
the  office  of  the  sepulchre. 

He  was  still  attired  in  his  fringed  cope  and  the  other 
garments  constituting  the  robe  of  a  singer.  His  hood 
was  hanging  nearly  to  his  feet ;  and  the  graceful  form  of 
the  young  monk  was  half  discovering  itself  beneath  the 
folds  which  fell  about  him,  as  he  looked  upon  the  three 
deacons  who  were  clothed  to  represent  the  three  Marys, 
who  now  were  advancing  through  the  middle  of  the 
choir  and  were  saying  with  pathos,  as  they  neared  the 
sepulchre,  "  Who  will  roll  away  for  us  the  stone  at 
the  door  of  the  sepulchre?" 

A-.  suddenly,  a  beautiful  lad  with  angelic  look  and 
dress  appeared,  and  the  golden  wheat-ear  which  he  held 
was  showing  richly  against  his  stainless  alb,  Vian  remem- 
bered that  this  was  his  own  place  years  before,  and  that 
now  instead  he  was  a  struggling  doubter,  looking  upon 
much  within  the  abbey  as  superstitious,  and  sure  to  look 
upon  this  story  of  the  resurrection  of  Christ  as  a  fable 
also,  if  he  could  not  find  some  securer  resting-place  than 
either  Rome  or  Reason. 


EASTER  AT  GLASTONBURY.  267 

"  Whom  do  you  seek  in  the  grave?  "  lisped  the  voice, 
which  was  full  of  the  celestial  music  of  innocent 
childhood. 

"  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  who  was  crucified,"  was  the  an- 
swer of  the  three,  each  of  whom  still  held  a  vase  before 
him.  i 

The  finger  of  the  white-robed  boy  pointed  to  the 
sepulchre ;  and  his  unshaken  voice  said,  "  He  is  not 
here ;  he  is  risen."  The  angel  had  departed  with  the 
echo  of  these  words. 

Two  priests  —  each  of  whom  Vian  knew  to  be  far  from 
angelic  in  his  behavior  —  now  spoke  from  the  places 
without  the  tomb,  where  they  solemnly  asked,  "  Whom 
seek  ye?" 

"  Sir,"  answered  a  deacon  whom  Vian  now  recognized 
as  a  violent  lover  of  the  abbot's  wine,  —  "  sir,  if  you  have 
taken  him  off,  tell  us."  The  cross  then  shone  in  the 
priest's  hand;  and  the  Marys  kissed  the  tomb. 

Vian  was  half  inclined  to  feel  repentant  that  he  had 
allowed  his  mind  to  be  critical  at  all,  as  he  remembered 
his  own  past.  Indeed,  he  was  about  ready  to  yield  to 
the  assumption  that  the  personal  character  of  a  priest 
could  in  no  way  affect  the  value  of  his  ministrations.  At 
that  moment,  however,  a  trifling  and  base  monk,  who 
had  only  the  recommendation  of  possessing  a  certain 
dramatic  talent,  appeared  clothed  in  a  white  alb  and 
stole,  stood  before  the  sepulchre,  and  said,  "  Mary  ! " 

The  deacon  habited  as  Mary  was  instantly  at  his  feet ; 
and  the  profligate  who  continued  to  act  his  part,  blessed, 
bowed,  uttered  sacred  phrases,  until  the  censer  was  lifted 
before  the  altar,  and  Vian  found  himself  trying  to  sing 
the  "TeDeum." 

A  shaken  faith  is  never  so  weak  as  when  it  tries  to 
sing.  Every  tone  was  dirge-like. 

"This  night  is  the  beginning  of  Easter  week,"  said  he  ; 
"  monks  cannot  converse  in  the  cloister,  thanks  to  the 


268  .J/O.VA"  .-L\7)   KXIGHT. 

saints  for  that !  I  should  say  something  very  sinful,  if  I 
could  talk  in  the  cloisters.  Ah,  yes  !  I  will  read  my  book 
which  enlightens  me  concerning  the  transmigration  of 
souls." 

But  Giovanni  would  not  let  Vian  read  or  remain  quiet. 
Too  good  a  chance  was  this  for  the  stirring  up  of  the 
Wycliffite  ancestry  which  slumbered  not  within  Vian's 
veins  ;  if  only  Fra  Giovanni  could  catch  him,  Vian's  day 
would  be  made  miserable  indeed. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   GROWING   PROBLEM. 
"  Et  Adit  nesciens  qui  iret." 

IT  was  soon  smiling  summer  within  and  without  the 
abbey  walls.  Fra  Giovanni  had  persuaded  the 
abbot  that  Vian  needed  fresh  air;  and  Richard  Beere 
allowed  them  a  freedom  about  the  whole  valley  and  the 
Avalonian  hills  quite  unequalled. 

"  How  is  it,"  said  Vian,  who  never  abused  his  liberty 
to  go  without,  "  that  I  am  permitted  a  liberty  that  no 
other  brother  has?" 

The  monk  was  growing  suspicious  that  Abbot  Richard 
was  actually  anxious  to  terminate  his  connection  with 
Glastonbury.  The  thought  wounded  his  spirit,  —  a  spirit 
without  a  trace  of  sourness  in  it,  which  therefore  made 
him  nestle  close  to  the  abbey,  as  a  boy  who  is  sweet- 
tempered  will  cling  even  to  one  who  is  tired  of  him. 

Never  does  such  a  soul  cling  so  tenderly  to  institutions 
as  when  the  faith  of  which  they  are  the  embodiments 
seems  to  be  fading  away  out  of  his  thought.  Never  did 
Vian  find  so  much  within  those  walls,  over  which  he  had 
climbed  once  to  follow  More  and  Erasmus,  as  now,  when 
for  a  reasonable  grasp  upon  the  Catholic  faith,  he  wbuld 
have  willingly  given  up  all  heresies,  heretics,  and  new 


2/O  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

learning,  with  his  books,  yea,  the  world  itself,  which  had 
recently  grown  so  interesting. 

nere  is,  however,"  said  he,  "  something  so  reason- 
able within  these  new  ideas  that  I  do  not  seem  to  possess 
them  at  all.  Rather,  they  possess  me.  It  seems  foolish 
for  me  to  talk  about  my  giving  them  up.  Rather,  let  me 
say,  will  they  give  me  up?  " 

How  rapidly  was  this  English  protester  also  getting 
beyond  the  protestantism  of  the  German  monk,  even 
unto  the  protestantism  of  which  blind  followers  of  the 
German  monk  have  been  fearful,  —  even  unto  the  prot- 
estantism of  Coleridge,  with  his  belief  in  Scripture  inspi- 
ration grounded  upon  the  fact,  "  The  Bible  finds  me  !  " 
And  yet  how  often  would  Vian  return,  vainly  seeking  to 
assure  himself  that  he  had  not  gone  very  far,  after  all ! 

Beautiful  Glastonbury  !  It  was  becoming  as  beautiful 
as  is  the  grave  of  a  lost  belief,  from  which  the  soul  never 
desires  to  depart. 

The  redwings  were  flying  upon  the  walls  with  the  last 
of  the  meadow-berries  in  their  bills ;  and  the  few  field- 
fares, which  had  not  gone  away  with  winter  and  spring, 
were  chasing  after  the  gray  wagtails  upon  the  high 
enclosure,  as  if  they  too  ought  to  be  gone.  In  the 
churchyard  the  willow-warbler,  having  swept  upward 
from  the  neighborhood  of  the  stream,  and  now  resting 
upon  the  sarcophagus  of  King  Arthur  or  flitting  over  to 
the  pyramids  near  by,  was  uttering  from  his  light  yellow 
breast  cadences  such  as  he  alone  in  England  may  create 
out  of  the  innumerable  half-tones  with  which  he  and  the 
black-cap  have  to  do,  with  such  varying  mastery.  Yellow- 
hammers  were  pushing  their  way  into  the  elms  with  an 
offensive  energy,  which  made  Vian  think  of  some  reformer 
pecking  away  upon  a  defunct  article  of  belief,  simply  be- 
cause it  is  easy  to  make  a  hole  in  it ;  and  down  in  the 
sacred  spring  audacious  blue-tits  were  taking  baths ;  or 
along  the  stone  sides  of  St.  Joseph's  Chapel  nut-hatchers 


THE   GROWING  PROBLEM.  2/1 

and  tree-creepers  were  finding  insects,  and  chattering 
about  it,  as  would  a  jovial  heretic  concerning  some  of  the 
follies  of  the  Church  which  he  had  discovered.  Black- 
birds were  never  so  lustrous  or  so  noisy ;  thrushes  were 
never  so  abundant  or  familiar  with  Glastonbury  thorn. 
White-throats  were  never  so  careless  about  their  notes, 
which  came  indifferently  in  the  form  of  a  squawk  or  a 
warble ;  while  the  chiff-chaff's  tone  was  as  mellow  as  the 
sunshine  which  enwrapped  in  a  mist  of  gold  the  dark 
brown  nightingale,  that  "  creature  of  a  fiery  heart." 

"  But  what  of  all  these  ?  "  said  Vian,  as  he  and  Giovanni 
walked  along  over  the  green  waste, —  for  such  the  soft 
sward  came  to  be,  the  instant  Vian  began  to  think. 
"  These  birds  do  not  get  their  creed  here.  Those  build- 
ings and  our  ceremonies  lie  at  the  other  extreme  of  life. 
Not  a  solitary  tone  could  that  robin  yonder  extract  out 
of  all  our  fussy  processions  and  ornamented  festival 
cloths." 

"  No,"  answered  Giovanni,  who  put  into  the  bird's 
throat  only  as  much  of  naturalism  as  our  modern  com- 
mentator inserts  of  supernaturalism,  —  "  no,  Vian,  the  bird 
is  a  pure  pagan.  You  are  getting  the  right  point  of  view. 
You  feel  as  you  ought  to  feel,  that  what  the  bird  has,  you 
ought  to  have  ;  what  the  bird  is,  you  ought  to  be,  — 
simply  natural,  without  any  creed  about  sounds  and  sky 
and  abbots.  What  the  bird  knows  about  the  sky  is 
enough  ;  it  flies  right  into  it.  What  the  bird  knows  about 
life  is  sufficient ;  it  just  lives  it,  and  asks  no  questions. 
It  has  no  theories  about  sounds  ;  it  just  sings.  We  have 
theories.  When  they  become  a  little  worn,  and  when 
many  people  believe  that  they  are  the  last  theories  we  shall 
ever  get,  we  make  them  into  creeds.  When  we  think 
they  will  not  last  without  defences,  we  build  great  mon- 
asteries in  which  to  teach  and  mumble  and  preach  them. 
When  they  become  quite  doubtful,  we  burn  people  in  their 
name.  We  religious  birds  kill  others,  not  because  they 


2/2  MONK  AND   KX1GHT. 

do  not  sing  well,  but  either  because  they  do  not  sing  our 
tune,  or  because  they  do  not  hold  to  our  opinions  about 
sounds.  That  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  it,  Vian.  These 
birds  are  all  pagans  ;  they  do  as  Nature  tells  them." 

Yian  was  entirely  dazzled  for  a  moment  by  this  very 
bright  philosophy  of  spiritual  struggle. 

He  looked  into  the  calm  blue  of  Giovanni's  eye,  noted 
again  the  Grecian  cast  of  his  features  as  never  before, 
and  beheld  on  his*  lips  the  expression  of  that  view  of  man 
and  his  possibilities  which  in  the  nineteenth  century  has 
found  a  poet  —  the  most  Grecian  of  our  choir  of  singers 
—  whose  song  has  this  one  ethical  note,  — 

M  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are,  live  as  they, 
Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see/' 

Surely  this  was,  this  is,  the  Renaissance,  in  its  ministry 
concerning  creed- making  and  practical  conduct,  —  be  it 
the  Renaissance  of  the  sixteenth  century  under  Pico  della 
Mirandola,  or  the  Renaissance  of  the  nineteenth  century 
under  Matthew  Arnold,  —  "a  revival  of  the  spirit  of 
classical  antiquity ;  a  restoration  of  the  divinity,  the  joy- 
ousness  of  Nature,  discerning  little  or  perhaps  nothing  of 
a  steadfast  faith  in  humanity,  an  eager  aspiration  after 
justice,  or  a  recognition  of  the  equality  of  rights  amongst 
all  mankind." 

I  that  to  be  all?  All,  indeed,  until  the  intellect 
communicated  its  light  to  the  conscience.  In  Vian,  the 
child  of  a  Wycliffite,  that  communication  between  intellect 
and  conscience  was  in  the  blood. 

'.is,  Fra  Giovanni  !  "said  he,  as  he  stood  over  the 
nest  of  a  sedge-warbler  which  his  foot  had  just  disturbed, 
and  which  he  had  watched  as  it  flew  out  into  the  pur- 
ple radiance,  "  you  come  from  Italy,  bringing  with  you 
the  revival  of  learning.  Something  beside  this  is  in  the 
air.  Your  own  ( Greece  had  such  kind  of  humanity,  —  no 


THE   GROWING  PROBLEM. 

Holy  Church  there  to  repress  its  thinking ;  such  kind  of 
a  man  wrote  the  '  Phaedo'  as  could  not  be  a  pagan  and 
nothing  more.  Plato  was  a  prophet,  as  was  also  Malachi, 
of  the  Christ." 

"What  did  Plato  prophesy?"  asked  Giovanni,  with 
interest. 

"  He  said :  <  We  must  lay  hold  of  the  best  human 
opinion,  in  order  that,  borne  on  it  as  on  a  raft,  we  may 
sail  over  the  dangerous  sea  of  life,  unless  we  can  find  a 
stronger  boat,  or  some  word  of  God,  which  will  more 
surely  and  safely  carry  us.'  " 

Giovanni  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  and  when  he  be- 
gan to  speak,  Vian  continued :  "  But  this  is  what  I 
wanted  to  say,  —  the  bird  has  no  need  of  a  creed.  Per- 
haps I  have  no  need  of,  one.  The  bird  has  not  my  feel- 
ing of  aspiration  and  of  dependence,  or  my  thirst  for 
the  infinite.  These  are  as  much  for  me  and  for  my  life  as 
the  bird's  wings  or  the  bird's  cry  for  his  life.  My  wings 
are  these  desires  and  impulses  toward  what  we  call  truth. 
I  must  work  them,  if  I  dare  to  be  a  man,  as  the  bird 
must  work  his  wings  to  reach  a  bird's  destiny.  Giovanni, 
with  a  bird's  problems  and  solutions,  I  could  easily  adopt 
and  live  inside  a  bird's  philosophy  of  life.  With  a  man's 
problems,  I  must  have,  somewhere  and  at  some  time,  a 
philosophy  of  life  as  comprehensive  as  man  is.  It  may 
be  that  the  search  for  it  is  all  I  may  be  permitted  to 
have.  Even  so ;  then  I  shall  get  a  man's  manhood  in 
searching  for  it." 

"Well,"  said  old  Giovanni,  quite  swept  from  his  own 
position  by  the  nobility  of  Vian's  purpose,  "  you  will  get 
truth  too.  Indeed,  manhood  is  only  truth  in  the  form 
of  humanity." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Vian,  who  was  not  likely  to  stop  at 

negatives,  "  it  may  be  true  that  I  will  get  —  yes,  every 

soul  must  obtain  the  creed,  and  all  the  creed  which  it 

needs,  by  its  singing  and  flying,  just  as  the  bird  gets  its 

VOL.  i.  — 18 


274  MONK  AXD  KXIGHT. 

belief — no!"  and  Vian  saw  for  the  first  time  the  rela- 
tive greatness  of  belief  and  faith,  —  "  its  faith,"  said  he, 
deliberately,  — "  the  working  belief,  the  creed  in  its 
throat  and  wings,  which  it  is  willing  to  sing  with  and  fly 
with.  Ah.  (iiovanni,  I  am  in  deep  water,  but  I  see  my 
way  out.  I  mean  this,"  —  and  Vian  began  again, — 
"  every  man  gets  his  faith  for  himself  by  flying  out  upon 
his  dream  of  destiny." 

But  that  statement  seemed  to  disappoint  him. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you  now,"  wheezed  the  Italian. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  I  do,"  laughed  Vian,  as  he 
grappled  again  with  the  thought  which  lies  at  the  root  of 
all  saving  faith  (if  by  that  we  mean  the  faith  that  saves). 
"  I  mean,"  pursued  he,  "  that  these  thirsts  for  the  truth, 
for  goodness,  for  the  infinite  are  whispers  of  destiny. 
The  eternal  beauty  is  for  me,  if  I  yearn  for  it.  Com- 
munion with  God  is  for  me,  if  I  believe  when  I  am  at 
my  best  that  I  cannot  do  without  it.  I  feel  vaguely  that 
righteousness  is  my  destiny ;  that  is  what  I  meant  by  a 
dream  of  destiny.  Now,  if  I  can  fling  myself  out  upon 
it,  trust  it,  sing  it,  and  fly  with  it,  as  the  bird  does  with 
what  has  come  in  like  an  instinct  into  its  breast,  I  shall 
find  out  more  and  more  about  it,  and  finally  I  shall 
know  it." 

"  Yes ;  but  that  will  not  be  a  creed,  but  a  knowledge," 
said  Fra  Giovanni. 

"  A  creed  is  made  up  of  facts  which  I  know,"  said  the 
eager  monk.  "  But  there  will  always  be  a  feeling  of  the 
existence  of  a  truth  just  beyond  the  truth,  which  I  have 
found  out  by  trusting  my  being  to  the  one  the  presence 
of  which  just  before  I  had  felt ;  and  that  dreamed  of  truth 
I  shall  reckon  upon  as  a  fact  too.  That  will  be  my  be- 
lief too." 

Giovanni  was  now  so  far  into  Vian's  soul,  that  he 
dared  not  be  rude  with  airing  his  own  settled  doubt,  — 
doubt  which,  like  most  scepticism,  had  grown  up  under 


THE  GROWING  PROBLEM.  275 

the  shadow  of  superstitions  or  under  the  miasma  gener- 
ated by  dead  articles  of  faith  which  had  never  felt  the 
touch  of  his  personal  life  ;  but  he  ventured  to  put  a  sin- 
gle question,  which  drew  from  Vian  his  deepest  radicalism. 

"What,  then,"  said  the  Italian,  "  if  one  can  make  all 
the  creed  he  needs  by  doing  with  a  man's  highest  in- 
stincts or  suspicions  what  the  bird  does  by  its  character- 
istic impulses,  —  I  say,  what  then  are  the  uses  of  the 
Scriptures,  which  your  Wycliffite  father  and  the  Lollards 
desired  to  put  into  the  hands  of  the  common  ignorant 
people,  for  their  salvation?" 

Vian  was  now  so  far  advanced  with  his  philosophy  of 
faith,  that  the  question  did  not  pause  upon  Giovanni's 
lips  for  a  reply. 

"Why,  "  said  the  younger  monk,  "  I  know  the  import 
of  your  question.  Vou  would  make  me  out  a  disbeliever 
in  the  Scriptures  because  I  do  not  believe  somebody's 
interpretation  of  them ;  or  you  say  that  my  views  of  the 
way  of  finding  truths  for  one's  creed  would  leave  nothing 
for  the  Revelation  to  do  for  men's  faith.  You  want  to 
know  the  answer  to  this  :  if  by  doing  righteousness  in 
following  one's  best  suspicions,  one  finds  out  what  one 
needs  to  know,  why  did  God  give  such  a  revelation,  and 
why  should  the  common  people  have  it  for  themselves?  " 

"  Precisely,"  said  the  anxious  Italian.  "The  age  be- 
hind us  worshipped  the  Church ;  the  next  age  will  prob- 
ably worship  a  book." 

"Well,"  said  Vian,  as  he  took  his  vellum  copy  of 
Wycliffe's  New  Testament  from  beneath  his  cope,  "  the 
Scriptures  have  within  them  a  revelation,  —  a  most  neces- 
sary revelation.  Of  course,  we  are  here  alone,  and  I 
can  talk  with  you  freely.  We  may  then  put  out  of  out 
minds  much  of  this  monkish  talk  about  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin. This  book  is  not  her  biography." 

Giovanni  was  both  amazed  and  amused  at  Vian's  in- 
trepidity. Neither  of  them  could  feel,  however,  that 


2j6  MOXK  AND   KXIGHT. 

these  curious  views  of  this  monk,  who  had  been  simply 
driven  from  point  to  point,  as  a  protester,  would  some 
day  be  shared  by  others,  or  become  the  means  of  depop- 
ulating theological  seminaries.  Giovanni  had  uncon- 
sciously hinted  that  perhaps  the  Reformers,  which  he  had 
heard  of,  were  likely  to  institute  bibliolatry.  Neither  saw 
that  a  true  use  of  the  Scriptures  would  ultimately  hurry 
the  human  soul  from  the  Scriptures  themselves  to  the 
Christ  whom  they  revealed.  Long,  however,  has  been 
the  battle  of  Christianity  against  both  ecclesiolatry  and 
bibliolatry. 

"  This  book  is  the  story  of  the  appearance  and  words 
of  God's  revelation  of  Himself  in  humanity,  in  His  incar- 
nation in  Jesus  Christ  who  is  our  Lord.  The  books  of 
the  Old  Testament  —  and  John  Wycliffe  has  translated 
all  —  are  the  history  of  that  hope  which  God  gave  to 
mankind.  In  this  New  Testament  the  hope  is  realized. 
Plato,  as  I  believe,  was  a  prophet.  Christ  is  that  '  word 
of  God,'  for  which  he  looked.  Now,  all  who  in  any  age 
or  place  have  done  righteousness  are  accepted  of  God. 
This  the  Scriptures  teach.  He  has  not  left  himself  with- 
out a  witness  in  any  time.  Cicero  and  Pythagoras  are 
witnesses.  Mankind  would  have  gone  on,  could  have 
gone  on  obtaining  more  truth,  as  I  say,  by  trusting  them- 
selves to  what  they  had  already;  but  in  the  fulness  of 
time,  God,  who  had  been  making  revelations  of  Himself 
in  many  ways,  finding  the  world  ready,  revealed  Himself 
just  as  any  father  would,  in  His  Son.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"Yes;  but  it  is  like  a  vague  vision  to  me,"  said 
Giovanni. 

"  These  Scriptures  come  to  a  man,  who  is  like  a  bird, 
doing  what  he  ought  with  his  instincts  to  sing  —  that 
is,  trying  to  make  life  harmonious  —  and  to  fly,  —  that  is, 
to  go  upward  and  onward  in  everything.  They  come  as 
a  revelation,  not  only  of  something  outside  of  him,  such 


THE   GROWING  PROBLEM. 

as  the  fact  that  his  Father  will  save  him  from  sin,  but  of 
something  inside  of  him.  They  show  the  righteousness 
of  these  aspirations,  and  tne  godliness  of  these  thirsts  of 
his  soul.  The  Scriptures  have  a  revelation  of  One  who 
fulfils  all  the  unfulfilled,  and  makes  humanity  sure  of  the 
path  below  which  tends  heavenward,  by  the  fact  that  we 
see  that  it  runs  straight  into  the  path  from  the  throne  of 
God,  coming  this  way  toward  earth.  Oh  !" — and  Vian 
gave  it  up,  —  "you  do  not  see  it  as  I  seem  to  see  it 
sometimes." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Giovanni,  who  saw  more  than  did 
Vian  of  the  consequences  of  such  opinions,  "all  truth 
will  harmonize  with  the  truth  of  Scriptures." 

"  Yes ;  when,  as  the  birds,  we  sing  it  and  fly  with  it. 
Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  We  must  get  out  of  abbeys, 
where  our  throats  are  tied  up  and  our  wings  are  clipped  ; 
we  must  live  truth  to  know  that  it  is  truth.  It  will  all 
harmonize.  I  begin  to  see  now  that  the  doctrine  of  the 
transmigration  of  the  soul  in  •  Pythagoras  is  like  Paul's 
doctrine." 

It  had  grown  late.  Fra  Giovanni  and  Vian  hurried 
back  to  the  abbey  to  find  no  less  an  ecclesiastic  than 
the  sub-chanter  sound  asleep  in  Vian's  cell.  The  lantern 
which  was  used  in  the  Feast  of  Fools  was  burning  low ; 
and  Vian's  copy  of  the  "  Adagia  "  of  Erasmus  was  open. 
The  sub-chanter's  hand  was  resting  on  the  passage  which 
has  been  thus  translated :  "  Wilt  thou  know  what  are 
the  true  riches  for  a  pope?  Listen  to  the  first  of  the 
Popes :  '  Silver  and  gold  have  I  none ;  but  such  as  I 
have  give  I  thee.  In  the  name  of  Jesus,  rise  and 
walk.'  " 

"  Sub-chanters  will  not  sleep  on  that  text  always,"  said 
Giovanni. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

IMPASSABLK    ABYSS. 

Love  works  at  the  centre, 

Heart -heaving  alway ; 
Forth  speed  the  strong  pulses 

To  the  borders  of  day. 

EMERSON. 

AS,  on  the  morning  of  the  2Oth  of  April,  Alke 
started  from  the  cottage  to  tend  the  goats,  it  was 
noticeable  that  for  some  reason  she  was  anxious  to  assure 
herself  of  the  safety  of  the  Virgil  manuscript,  which  had 
been  in  her  possession  for  nearly  a  twelvemonth.  She 
also,  and  most  lovingly,  asserted  her  independence  of 
Caspar's  overmastering  information  as  to  the  best  nooks 
among  the  mountains  in  which  the  lean  goats  might 
obtain  nourishing  pasture. 

Alke  had  been  possessed  of  strange  and  incommuni- 
cable feelings  since  she  had  made  the  promise  of  a  day 
before  to  meet  the  young  peasant,  who  had  so  delighted 
her  with  finding  a  purchaser  for  her  illuminations,  and 
who  had  obliged  her  still  more  deeply  with  the  Virgil 
manuscript. 

«•  My  child,"  said  Caspar,  "  I  have  surest  confidence 
in  you ;  and  yet,  if  I  had  believed,  as  do  the  monks  of 
Turin,  in  the  Devil's  part  in  this  world,  I  should  have 
said  that  my  Alke  had  met  the  Devil,  and  that  he  had 


AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS.  2  79 

given  you  the  manuscript.  It  is  certain  that  the  parch- 
ment which  you  fetched  to  me  is  the  manuscript  for 
which  Erasmus  came  to  Turin  many  years  ago." 

Alke  had  refused,  for  the  sake  of  the  pledge  which 
she  had  given  to  the  youth,  even  to  describe  him  to 
her  father;  and  the  scholarly  Caspar  had  willingly 
allowed  his  child  the  privilege  of  making  this  refusal. 
Not  a  syllable  had  been  spoken  to  the  Barb6  of  her 
possession. 

"The  Barbe  is  really  afraid  that  we  are  becoming 
heretics  here, — pagans,  indeed,  I  ought  to  say.  He  tells 
me  that  this  is  all  a  revival,  not  of  Christian,  but  of  pagan 
Rome.  He  looks  at  my  Aldine  '  Homer  '  and  '  Demos- 
thenes,' and  shrugging  his  shoulders,  he  flees  to  '  Nobla 
Leycon,'  and  the  '  Babylonian  Captivity,'  "  said  the  child 
of  the  Renaissance. 

"The  Barbe"  has  looked  with  wonder  at  the  coins' 
which  Master  Erasmus  left  for  me  so  long  ago,"  added 
Alke. 

"What  said  he?  I  did  not  know  he  had  seen 
them." 

"  He  took  the  one  on  which  is  the  head  of  Jupiter, 
and  he  said :  '  Child  !  your  father  loves  Greece  and 
Rome  too  well.  Our  city  is  neither  Athens  nor  Rome, 
but  Jerusalem.  Our  God  is  the  Omnipotent  Father ; ' 
and  then  he  spoke  sharply  to  me  :  '  Child  !  Diocletian, 
the  persecutor  of  Christians,  worshipped  at  the  shrine 
of  Jupiter.'  " 

"  What  answer  made  you,  daughter?  " 

"  That  I  did  not  worship  any  images." 

"  What  said  our  Barbe  ?" 

"  He  said  that  the  things  of  Greece  and  Rome  were 
carnal  and  unsavory.  He  would  not  have  me  worship 
either  the  Virgin  or  ancient  and  fabulous  gods." 

Gaspar  was  all  interest,  and  was  also  not  a  little  rebel- 
lious in  his  heart  against  the  Barbe.  Thorough  Walden- 


280  .1/aVA"  AND  KNIGHT. 

sian  that  he  was,  he  knew  that  neither  his  fraternity  nor 
his  minister  understood  the  all-illuminating  effect  of  the 
revival  of  ancient  learning  upon  Mediaeval  Europe.  In 
every  line  of  Erasmus  he  read  the  effect  of  the  Renais- 
sance in  the  preparation  it  had  made  and  was  yet  making 
for  a  reformation.  These  very  coins  had  made  Caspar 
a  freer  man. 

"Our  Barbe  cannot  understand  it,"  said  he  to  Alke. 
"You  must  make  for  him  a  beautiful  copy  of  the  canticle 
he  loves  most." 

As  Alke,  before  going  forth  to  the  pastures,  had  taken 
the  canticle  in  her  hand,  eager  to  find  such  suggestions 
of  color  in  Nature  or  in  her  own  soul  as  would  enrich  its 
spiritual  harmonies,  she  felt  as  honest  a  pride  in  being 
able  to  convince  the  Barbe  of  her  orthodoxy  as  she  felt 
in  possessing  the  Virgil  manuscript,  for  the  sight  of  which 
the  eyes  of  Erasmus  were  still  longing.  Her  sunny  hair 
floated  down  to  her  homely  girdle  with  a  freedom  which 
was  descriptive  of  her  hope,  as  for  an  instant  she  dreamed 
of  attaching  to  herself  the  friendship  of  the  Barbe,  or  of 
obtaining  some  other  such  treasure  from  the  hands  of  the 
youth  whom  so  soon  she  was  to  see. 

How  had  she  obtained  the  Virgil  manuscript  ? 

"  I  can  never  tell  my  own  soul,"  she  said,  "  how  it 
came  about.  When  did  I  first  see  this  remarkable  friend  ? 
I  do  not  remember  how  it  has  all  happened.  When  did 
my  father  consent  that  I  should  take  to  him  my  pictures 
and  receive  coins  from  his  hand  ?  I  do  not  know  why 
I  should  try  to  find  out.  This  youth  has  often  told  me 
that  the  village  priest  would  not  allow  him  to  buy  my 
pictures  if  he  knew  that  a  Waldensian  had  painted  them. 
It  appears  reasonable  enough.  I  have  been  silent  —  too 
silent?  Have  I  done  wrong?  No;  I  have  kept  the 
fiends  of  hunger  and  cold  from  our  doorway,  and  I  am 
glad.  He  has  said  that  he  was  glad  to  talk  with  me 
about  the  poets  and  singers  of  the  olden  time.  Has  it 


AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS.  28 1 

been  wrong?  He  has  known  that  I  am  a  Waldensian's 
daughter,  and  —  " 

Alke  was  in  a  different  mood  when  these  considera- 
tions had  pressed  themselves  upon  her  in  this  soliloquy. 
She  felt,  however,  that  for  some  reason  this  must  be  the 
last  time  she  should  meet  him  without  the  knowledge  of 
her  father. 

"  My  Saviour  knows  that  I  have  not  done  —  no,  I 
have  not  thought  —  wrong.  Hereafter,  alas  !  hereafter 
I  shall  do  wrong  if  I  see  him  again,"  she  whispered. 

What  may  be  called  her  father's  Puritanism  had  kept 
her  from  telling  him  what  had  gone  on,  from  time  to 
time,  within  the  soul  of  this  almost  companionless  girl 
who  loved  learning.  She  now  tried  to  think  of  something 
beside  her  new  moral  problem.  Her  mind  found  no  ease 
in  contemplating  the  contrast,  of  which  she  was  aware, 
between  the  condition  of  her  Waldensian  neighbors  near 
La  Torre  and  that  of  herself  and  her  father.  She  knew 
not  with  whomsoever  she  might  hold  converse  concerning 
the  things  which  were  dearest  to  her  above  all  else,  save 
religion,  if  she  were  to  lose  the  infrequent  companionship 
of  this  youth. 

"  Beside  my  father  and  the  Barbe,  who  does  not  like 
to  talk  of  Greece  or  Rome,  there  is  none." 

For  the  first  time  the  maiden  felt  a  pang  at  the  pros- 
pect. Never  appeared  so  low  and  poor  the  life  of  the 
other  Waldensians  with  whom  formerly  as  a  child,  now 
as  a  teacher  and  sympathetic  friend  and  half-adored 
cynosure  of  all  hearts,  she  had  lived,  feeling  betimes 
that  the  kingdom  of  God  on  earth  had  something, 
not  perhaps  better,  but  possibly  as  good,  and  withal 
more  pleasant  and  comfortable  for  her.  As  she  went 
along  toward  the  pastures,  passing  cottage  after  cottage, 
from  which  the  little  children  came  swarming  to  greet 
her,  begging  also  to  follow  her,  she  pitied  the  lives 
which  were  able  to  endure,  even  at  the  demand  of  such 


MO.YA'  AND  KXIGHT. 

penury  as  had  been  hers,  a  life  without  culture  and  its 
hopes. 

"  But  this  feeling  is  altogether  ignoble  and  unworthy 
of  a  Christian,"  she  kept  saying,  as  with  the  canticle  in 
her  hand  she  looked  into  the  cottages,  seeing  infants 
who  were  crying  in  their  cradles,  recognizing  older  chil- 
dren who  by  means  of  ladders  had  come  out  of  the 
upper  apartments  of  these  galleried  homes,  and  who  were 
yelling  lustily  for  the  chance  of  kissing  her  whom  they 
had  learned  to  reverence,  while  she  paused  to  smile  upon 
some  demure  girl  who  was  teaching  the  younger  ones  of 
a  family  the  catechism. 

Amid  all  this,  her  mind  was  set  upon  the  fact  that, 
day  after  day,  she  had  been  meeting  a  young  man  who, 
she  did  not  doubt,  was  a  Romanist ;  that  she  had  even 
allowed  him,  when  the  passion  for  literature  swallowed  up 
all  ideas  of  propriety,  to  give  her  a  priceless  parchment ; 
that  she  had  so  believed  in  her  own  good  cause  of 
keeping  starvation  from  the  door  of  her  father,  and  had 
so  confided  in  the  young  man's  word,  which  had  never 
proven  false,  as  to  furnish  him  with  illuminations  which 
he  had  conveyed  to  the  Monastery  of  Turin.  Could  it 
all  be  wrong? 

It  flashed  upon  her :  "  He  may  be  a  novice,  or  even  a 
monk,  in  disguise." 

It  was  of  some  comfort  to  reflect,  in  this  connection,  that 
secrecy  could  be  depended  upon  as  a  necessity  upon  his 
part,  and  that,  whatever  might  happen  in  what  Alke  had 
determined  should  be  a  last  interview,  she  had  brought 
no  shame  either  upon  her  father  or  his  cause,  and  that, 
as  she  herself  said,  "  never  was  the  Virgil  manuscript  so 
safe." 

Soon  after  she  had  reached  the  pastures,  Alke  saw  the 
young  man  coming  around  the  abrupt  hillside,  and  bearing 
a  heavy  load  of  wood  upon  his  back. 

"  For  whom  do  you  gather  fagots  at  this  hour  in  the 


AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS.  283 

morning?  "  inquired  Alke,  her  opening  lips  as  ruddy  as 
the  rose  of  dawn  whose  vanishing  petals  still  lay  upon 
the  hills.  Her  voice,  which  usually  was  made  weary  by 
this  time  by  outpouring  its  song  upon  the  morning,  was 
not  free  from  a  certain  stern  and  penetrative  sharpness 
which  the  young  man  had  never  felt  in  it  before. 

The  inquiry  was  altogether  too  unexpected ;  and  any 
attempt  to  answer  it  would  be  too  perilous.  The  youth 
tried  to  feign  dulness  of  hearing  and  preoccupation  of 
mind  or  interest  in  the  canticle  which,  by  this  time,  Alke 
had  found  to  be  full  of  artistic  possibilities.  Indeed,  so 
many  were  his  attempts  to  escape  the  force  of  her  query 
that  he  succeeded  in  none.  For  the  first  time  the  na- 
tures had  measured  each  other's  strength. 

"You  would  answer  me  manfully,"  she  said;  and  she 
closed  the  canticle  from  his  view,  hiding  also  her  bare 
feet  beneath  her  coarse  skirt,  —  "  you  would  answer  me 
manfully,  I  say,  if  there  were  no  evil  intention  in  your 
coming  here." 

Alke  was  likely  to  speak  too  strongly,  especially  when 
a  suspicion  of  priestcraft  crossed  her  mind. 

"  Do  you  gather  fagots  for  him  for  whom  you  gather 
illuminations?  " 

The  young  man  was  sure  that  he  looked  like  a  novice, 
acted  like  a  priest,  and  that,  if  he  talked  at  all,  he  would 
make  her  certain  that  he  was  a  monk,  so  guilty  did  his 
soul  confess  him  to  be  of  duplicity  in  the  cause  of  love. 

"  Maiden  !  "  ventured  he. 

"  Ah  !  I  have  discerned  the  priest's  tone  in  that  talk. 
With  that  word  the  monks  rob  us  !  " 

"  I  am  not  —  " 

"  I  know  not  what  you  are  trying  to  say,  but  I  must 
know  at  once  what  you  are  before  we  speak  of  aught 
else." 

Alke's  voice  was  full  of  martial  music;  nevertheless, 
the  young  man  sat  down  upon  his  bundle  of  fagots. 


284  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all,"  said  he,  as  assuringly  as  he  might, 
while  he  took  his  breath  slowly  and  generously,  —  "I 
will  confess  all." 

"  No,  this  is  not  a  confessional,  even  for  you,"  Alke 
said  with  an  abrupt  self-assurance. 

"  I  trow  not ;  but  I  do  respect  it  and  you.  And  I  have 
never  done  you  wrong.  By  the  Mass  —  " 

"  Swear  not  at  all.  '  By  the  Mass ! '  —  that  is  a 
Romish  oath,  at  least.  Ah,  and  yet  I  knew  you  were  a 
Romanist.  Are  the  fagots  for  the  burning  of  a  heretic  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all ;  and  if  you  hear  me,  —  oh,  if  you 
can  hear  my  heart,  you  will  be  satisfied.  I  hope  I  shall 
be  blessed,"  said  he,  with  a  growing  confidence  in  his 
tongue. 

•   What  is  your  name?  " 

"  Salmani,"  he  answered,  with  evident  relief. 
\n  Italian?" 

"  Even  so.  And  I  must  be  honest  with  you.  You 
know  I  have  never  —  I  have  not  harmed  you." 

"  Never ;  nor  could  you  harm  my  soul,"  exclaimed 
Alke,  with  a  shiver. 

'•  I  am  not  in  holy  orders.  I  hope  I  never  shall  be  a 
priest,  if —  But  I  am  of  the  Monastery  of  Turin,  and  I 
have  been  —  " 

"  My  saviour  !  "  cried  Alke,  looking  up  into  heaven. 

"  Yes,  maiden,  I  have  been  your  saviour."  Salmani 
arose,  his  face  radiant  with  hope. 

"  Advance  not,  Priest !  Advance  not !  You  are  not 
my  saviour.  Even  Jesus  Christ  has  succored  me." 

Alke  was  trembling  with  a  courageous  purpose  which 
even  she  did  not  understand ;  while  Salmani  said  with 
admirable  coolness  and  great  calculation,  — 

"  Your  Saviour  has  saved  you  from  —  even  from  me. 
I  have  saved  you  from  the  monks.  Let  me  tell  you  my 
story.  You  will  respect  me ;  perhaps  you  may  even  —  " 

"  Stop,  Salmani  !     I  must  get  to  my  father." 


AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS.  285 

"  Alke,  you  are  as  safe  with  me.  For  your  Saviour's 
sake,  I  will  respect  you." 

"  You  must!  "  The  words  flashed  from  her  burning 
lips. 

"  Your  Saviour  in  you,  in  your  life,  in  your  faith,  has 
saved  you,  even  from  me.  I  could  not,  oh,  I  could  not 
do  you  wrong,  as  I  have  heard  you  talk  of  your  Saviour. 
Oh  that  your  Saviour  were  mine  !  " 

At  last  Alke  was  touched.  She  might  take  her  Sa- 
viour even  into  the  bosom  of  this  disguised  novice  or 
lay-brother,  —  she  knew  not  which  he  was.  The  very 
thought  of  winning  in  such  a  conquest  for  her  Lord 
made  her  fearless. 

"  If  his  scarred  hand  is  upon  your  heart,  I  will  trust 
even  one  who  has  acted  a  hideous  lie  with  me,"  she  said. 
"  You  have  told  me  that  you  would  tell  me  all." 

Tears  Were  close  behind  Alke's  words. 

"  You  remember  that  you  lost  a  sheet  of  empurpled 
parchment  containing  the  Pater  Noster — " 

"  Our  Lord's  Prayer,"  interjected  the  Waldensian. 

"  Containing  the  Lord's  Prayer  —  " 

"  Our  Lord's  Prayer,"  insisted  the  dogmatic  Alke. 

"  Our  Lord's  Prayer,"  repeated  the  submissive  novice. 
"  You  lost  it  at  La  Torre." 

"  I  remember,"  was  the  reply. 

"  It  was  I,  —  then  a  novice  at  Turin,  —  I  found  it. 
The  priests  of  that  monastery  were  intent  on  finding  the 
secret  of  empurpling  parchment.  Then  they  grew  more 
anxious  to  have  the  hand  and  skill  which  created  such 
letters  as  were  inscribed  upon  it.  They  found  out  Caspar 
Perrin's  daughter.  You  have  knowledge  of  our  law, 
Alke?" 

"  I  know,"  replied  the  agitated  girl,  "that  there  is  an 
infamous  law  which  makes  it  possible  for  priests  to  seize 
and  carry  off  the  children  of  those  who  are  called 
heretics." 


286  MO.YA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  Your  inscriptions  were  so  beautiful." 

••  And  you  were  sent  to  seize  me?  " 

"  No ;  I  shall  confess  it.  I  was  sent  to  La  Torre  to 
he  instructed  of  the  priest  and  to  obey  him.  You  know 
that  the  Waldensians  are  strong  and  numerous  here. 
1  he  priest  was  minded  to  act  cautiously." 

"  And  our  God  is  omnipotent,"  added  Alke,  her  bosom 
swelling  with  grateful  feeling  to  Heaven. 

••  I  was  told  to  obtain  the  secret." 

ui  you  could  not,  because  my  father  alone  knows 
how  to  empurple  parchment." 

"  Even  so,"  said  Salmani.  "  And  then  I  was  instructed 
to  purchase  all  of  your  illuminations,  which  I  have  sent 
to  the  monastery.  Oh,  I  have  told  them  many  lies  to 
preserve  you  these  long  months  !  " 

"The  cowards  have  been  very  patient  with  you,"  said 
Alke,  with  bitter  scorn. 

"  Scorn  not  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  piqued  Salmani.  "  I 
could  have  had  you  seized  at  any  moment.  But  I  did 
not,  I  could  not  — 

••  Why  not?  Why  did  you  not  do  it?  "  inquired  Alke, 
as  she  lifted  her  head,  and  the  sun  twisted  his  most 
brilliant  threads  of  light  within  her  long,  loose  hair. 

Salmani  looked  into  the  eyes  which  were  both  dreams 
and  destinies ;  and  rising  again,  said  with  uncontrollable 
emotion,  "  I  loved  you  ;  even  now  1  do  love  you." 

"  Loved  me,  Salmani,  —  loved  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  loved  you.  The  Saviour,  or  whatever  else  was 
in  your  face  and  life  —  I  could  not  do  you  wrong.  I  am  a 
lover,  though  I  am  also  a  novice  ;  and,  Alke,  I  am  at  your 
feet.  Oh,  save  me  !  " 

Even  Alke's  forehead  was  crimson ;  and  in  her  eyes 
was  a  strange  confusion  of  regret  and  honesty,  —  regret 
that  by  any  means  any  man  —  above  all,  one  so  soon  to 
be  a  priest  —  should  have  felt,  or  even  declared  that  he 
felt,  that  she  had  given  the  smallest  invitation  to  his  love  ; 


AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS.  287 

honesty,  also,  which  instantly  averred  with  passionate 
veracity,  "  Salmani,  I  have  never  loved  any  man  but  my 
own  father.  I  have  never  intimated  that  any  other  affec- 
tion could  become  acceptable  to  my  heart ! "  She 
said  this  with  a  womanliness  which  at  once  confused 
Salmani. 

"But,"  said  he,  as  the  unfading  daytime  met  a  weird 
suggestion  of  night  upon  his  face,  "  my  love  is  not  like 
the  love  of  a  father.  It  is  deeper,  different.  Even 
your  innocence  understands  me." 

"  It  could  not  be  so  unselfish,"  she  replied,  as  with  the 
thought  of  her  father,  what  she  had  heard  of  monkish 
schemes  burned  into  a  flame  of  wrath,  —  wrath  which 
died  away  when  she  resolved  to  be  just  to  Salmani. 
Then  she  said,  with  something  like  pain,  "  I  could  not 
love  you." 

"Have  I  made  the  love  of  a  monk  seem  hateful?" 
said  he  beseechingly,  as  he  looked  up  from  the  green- 
mantled  pool,  into  which  his  heated  soul  longed  to  plunge 
itself,  and  saw  a  furnace-blast  in  Alke's  face,  overspread 
with  soft  but  dark  clouds  of  innocent  pitifulness.  "  You 
do  not  hate  me,"  he  dared  to  assert. 

"  I  do  detest  the  associations  of  your  life.  I  hate 
the  sort  of  quiescence  with  which  you  have  heard  the 
vulgar  priests  in  the  monasteries  plan  against  my  own 
people  —  " 

"  I  did  not  listen  —  " 

"  Or  oppose.  You  should  have  listened,  and  come  to 
our  deliverance,  if  you  loved  the  truth." 

"  I  brought  you  the  manuscript.  I  loved  you.  Where 
is  the  parchment  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  you  had  brought  a  true  heart  of  cour- 
age to  the  help  of  God's  persecuted  ones.  I  am  nothing 
to  be  loved ;  the  truth,  Salmani,  is  everything." 

"  I  bring  it  now,  —  a  true  heart,  full  of  courage." 
Salmani  stood  like  a  statue  in  the  midst  of  a  conflagration,' 


288  MO XX  AND   h'XIGIIT. 

the  swirling  fires  seeking  to  get  hold  upon  its  rocky 
substance.  "  I  love  the  truth  in  concrete  form,"  he 
added  eagerly. 

>u  love  the  form  more  than  you  love  the  truth 
itself.  Forms  perish.  The  Holy  Church  itself  is  only 
a  once  beautiful  form  grown  hideous.  Kvery  form  grows 
old  and  poor ;  the  truth,  never.  You  have  lived  in  a 
monastery.  1  loathe  the  kind  of  spirit  which  would  haunt 
a  maiden's  steps  with  a  dagger  in  one  hand  and  —  " 

"Where  is  my  manuscript?"  Salmani's  figure  as- 
sumed the  proportions  and  attitude  of  wronged  right- 
eousness ;  and  he  said  it  again  sharply :  "  Where  is  that 
manuscript?" 

"  I  hate  —  Alas  !  I  must  not  hate,"  she  whispered, 
obedient  now,  as  she  was,  to  her  sense  of  justice. 

Salmani's  lip  quivered,  and  his  feet  moved  nearer, 
when  he  broke  forth  more  piteously  and  yet  more 
angrily,  "  I  could  have  delivered  you  to  the  monks  a 
hundred  times." 

ever  alive  ;  never  without  this  body  of  mine  scarred 
beyond  their  power  to  harm  it !  " 

"  Oh,  Alke,  "  pleaded  he,  "  I  never  should  have  fancied 
it  possible  for  me  thus  to  kill  every  heaven-born  senti- 
ment in  my  soul." 

He  never  seemed  quite  so  interesting ;  and  the  \Val- 
densian  girl  thought  him  half  sublime  when  he  spoke. 
But  he  had  not  been  so  faithful  as  her  soul  demanded. 

Still  the  great  green  trees  stood  silent,  unvexed  by  any 
breeze.  Still  did  the  poplars  and  elms  furnish  hiding- 
places  for  the  purple  linnets  which  told  one  another  of 
their  love.  Still  did  the  flowering  meadows  stretch  from 
the  foot-hills  in  a  lovely  monotony  of  broad  magnificence, 
across  which  came  the  song  of  the  cushat.  Still  did  the 
tremulous  young  monk  look  upon  Alke,  with  his  sad  dark 
eyes.  She  saw  the  living  abstraction  called  truth.  He 
saw  only  the  concrete  manifestation  of  truth  before  him. 


AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS.  289 

Alke  knew  it.  Everything  but  her  heart  was  ready  for  a 
new  declaration  of  love. 

"  For  you  I  will  flee  from  the  monastic  life  and  the 
priest  of  La  Torre." 

"Whither?"  said  Alke,  surprised  at  once  at  finding 
her  soul  interested  in  the  possibility  of  fleeing  somewhere 
with  him ;  and  then  she  cried  out :  "  I  do  not  love  you, 
Salmani.  It  would  be  falsity  and  shame  to  tell  you  other 
than  this." 

"Where  is  my  manuscript?"  demanded  he,  with  an 
offended  air. 

The  justice  of  the  inquiry  again  startled  Alke,  and  once 
more  she  thought  not  only  of  flight  with  Salmani,  but  of 
the  precious  manuscript ;  then  she  thought  of  her  own 
heart.  Why  should  she  flee  ?  Alas  !  why  should  he  think 
of  flight  ? 

"  My  love  cannot  be  bought  with  Greece  or  Rome." 

In  Alke's  soul,  the  Renaissance  had  become  the 
Reformation. 

"  And  just  that  love,  unpurchasable  and  priceless,  I 
must  have  !  " 

The  half-charmed  bird  was  now  affrighted.  Amid  the 
commingled  green  and  gold  of  that  tangled  forest  of 
problems  and  partial  solutions,  the  songless  one  thought 
she  discovered  the  eyes  of  a  serpent.  "  I  must  have  !  "  — 
alas  for  Salmani !  he  spoke  it  too  commandingly,  too 
roughly.  Every  fear  of  monks  which  had  come  to  her, 
or  had  grown  up  within  her,  leaped  up  like  a  fierce 
guardian,  and  declared  her  peril.  Even  Salmani  saw 
that  the  tide  of  passionate  affection  had  run  too  high. 
Every  attitude  had  changed.  The  charming  maiden  had 
the  eye  antl  look  of  an  enraged  Hebrew  prophetess.  From 
Alke's  soul  had  departed  every  thought  of  any  possible 
means  for  Salmani's  escape.  Every  vague  plan  which 
she  had  begun  to  see  afar  off  that  might  reconcile  her 
conscience  with  an  act  which  existed  only  in  remotest 
VOL.  i. — 19 


290  .1/O.VA'  A. YD    KXIGHT. 

possibility,  ever)"  dim  suggestion  which  rose  out  of  the 
dark  questioning  of  her  mind,  as  to  the  way  in  which  her 
father  and  her  father's  cause  might  be  propitiated,  had 
gone.  All,  save  Alice's  loyalty  to  her  own  heart,  was 
swept  away. 

'•  That  manuscript  shall  not  prove  a  grave -cloth  for  my 
honor.  It  ^ilmani  :  I  hasten  for  the  parchment," 

she  at  last  said  to  the  bewildered  man. 

"  Stop  !  Virgin  and  beloved  —  " 

But  Alke  had  bounded  across  the  brook  which  hitherto 
had  divided  them  from  the  meadow,  which  was  full  of 
anemones  and  wild  campanula,  on  whose  edge  she  now 
stood. 

The  monk  pursued.  "  Oh,  my  angel !  stop  for  but  a 
moment,  and  I  will  not  pursue  you  another  step." 

"  Stand  there  !  Come  not  a  step  nearer  to  me  ! "  said 
the  beautiful  creature,  her  rosy  feet  unshod  and  dew- 
washed,  and  almost  hidden  in  the  grasses  and  blossoms ; 
her  long  hair  floating  with  a  breeze  which  had  sprung  up 
to  bring  orchard  odors  to  their  anguish  ;  her  hand  uplifted 
as  if  in  command,  more  lovely  and  more  potent  than  the 
emblazoned  sceptre  of  any  queen ;  and  her  face  pale 
with  that  fear  which  accords  with  heroism. 

"  I  see  it  all,"  said  Salmani.  "  You  do  not  love  me 
sufficiently  to  make  you  forget  that  I  have  been  a  novice 
and  am  nearly  a  monk  of  Turin.  I  know  little  of  love, 
but  I  know  that  love  is  not  memory ;  nay,  rather,  love  is 
forgetfulness.  It  is  the  fire  which  consumes  the  unfor- 
tunate past,  and  leaves  bright  and  pure  the  present  and 
future.  But,  Alke,  you  do  not  love  me.  No  !  I  stand 
here  on  these  scaled  rocks,  and  with  the  dull  ground  all 
flowerless  about  me ;  you  are  on  the  other  ^ide,  amid 
bloom  and  lingering  dew-drops." 

"  Salmani,"  she  said,  "  you  belong  to  the  Church  and 
party  of  persecution  and  fables.  I  am  a  VValdensian. 
The  blossom  and  the  dew-fall  are  ours." 


AN  IMPASSABLE  ABYSS.  2QI 

"  Do  not  break  in  upon  my  words  of  love  with  words 
of  religion,"  begged  Salmani.  "  Perhaps  it  is  true,  —  ah  ! 
I  believe  sometimes  that  it  is  most  true,  as  you  say.  But 
forget  not  Salmani !  Alke,  do  not  forget  me  in  your  realm 
of  dew-fall  and  bloom.  As  I  was  saying,  a  tiny  brook, 
over  which  just  now  I  saw  you  leap  in  fear  of  me,  who 
would  not  harm  a  ray  of  that  light  about  your  head,  — 
only  that  slight  stream  divides  us.  Yet  it  is  immeasur- 
ably wide  and  deep,  —  every  drop  of  water  in  it  is  an 
abyss  at  present." 

"  Cross  it,  Salmani !  "  said  the  maiden,  in  unconscious 
precipitancy. 

At  once  Salmani's  eye  was  light  itself;  but  as  he  lifted 
his  foot,  Alke  cried  out :  "  Nay ;  I  meant  not  the  stream 
before  your  feet,  but  the  stream  which  divides  our  souls, 
—  the  stream  immeasurably  wide,  whose  every  drop  is  an 
abyss." 

"  I  will  cross  even  that  stream,  if  I  may  go  to  you,  Alke, 
if  I  may  have  you  in  the  dew  and  blossom  of  that  new 
life." 

"  Ah,  Salmani,  come  first  to  the  truth.  If  you  cross 
that  stream  because  love  for  any  woman  leads  you,  you 
will  fall  back.  If  you  cross  it  for  any  human  life,  you 
will  be  lost  in  the  abysses.  If  you  had  crossed  it  for 
truth's  sake,  no  power  could  hurl  you  back.  If  you  try 
to  cross  it  for  God's  sake  alone,  you  will  be  saved." 

"  Oh,  Alke,"  sobbed  the  young  man,  "  I  could  accept 
your  religion  for  my  love's  sake,  but  you  do  not  love 
me.  Some  day  I  may  have  both  love  and  religion  which 
are  full  of  dew  and  bloom." 

"This  little  brook,  full  of  secret  abysses,  divides  us 
yet.  God  give  you  pure  religion,  poor,  proud  monk  ! 
I  know  little  of  love ;  but  I  believe  that  upon  love's 
meadows  the  dew  falls  only  out  of  the  sky  of  the  Infinite 
Love,  and  the  flowers  spring  out  of  an  eternal  affection. 
These  are  the  facts  of  genuine  religion." 


MONK'  AND  KNIGHT. 

Alke  turned  to  go  away.  Salmani  saw  a  drop  of  liquid 
silver  on  the  cheek  which  glowed  like  a  ruby.  As  he 
turned  to  leave  the  brook-side,  the  maiden,  and  the 
saddest  event  in  his  experience,  he  simply  said,  — 

"  I  will  not  offend  or  rebuke  you.  For  my  sake  and 
my  dead  love's  sake,  keep  the  manuscript.  The  saints 
preserve  you  !  " 

"God,  who  is  rich  in  mercy,  lead  you,  Salmani,  by  His 
grace  across  the  tiny  but  fathomless  stream  !  "  said  Alke, 
with  a  shaken  voice,  as  they  parted  forever. 

That  night  Alke  received  her  father's  blessing;  and 
Salmani,  who  was  now  wedded  to  a  monastic  life  as 
never  before,  began  a  series  of  painful  penances,  which 
his  spiritual  lord  informed  him  would  probably  make  him 
a  saint,  despite  the  unfortunate  past. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

AN    UNCHAINED     BOOK. 
"  Thy  word  giveth  light." 

THERE  is  no  such  pain  leagued  with  such  promise 
as  that  of  a  soul  disturbed  with  a  vitalizing  idea 
larger  than  itself. 

Vian  at  Glastonbury  wandered  to  the  greensward  which 
stretched  away  from  the  abbot's  kitchen  to  the  enclosure. 
There  he  could  hear  the  echoes  of  that  conversation  with 
Giovanni  which  had  left  his  mind  confronted  with  certain 
problems  as  to  the  Scriptures,  which  he  was  now  trying 
to  work  out.  He  possessed  a  New  Testament  only ;  but 
his  reverent  study  of  it  had  charged  his  spirit  with  cer- 
tain notions  as  to  its  future  influence  in  the  world,  such  as 
had  never  occurred  -to  his  speculative  mind  before. 

He  now  stood  in  the  long  passage-way,  where  through 
a  gem-like  window  a  soft  autumnal  glow  fell  upon  him 
and  upon  his  book.  He  was  reading  several  passages 
for  his  own  comfort.  It  was  one  of  those  vision-seeing 
hours,  —  one  may  feel  farther  than  one  may  see,  in  their 
radiance,  —  and  they  often  came  to  Vian. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  realized  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  open  Bible.  Enshackled  and  restless,  he 
had  already  kissed  it  as  he  had  often  kissed  the  crucifix. 
He  was  chained  j  here  was  the  unchained  Word  of  God. 


294  -VA' 

Several  copies  of  the  untranslated  Bible  he  had  seen, 
attached  to  posts  of  oak  and  weighted  with  iron  chains. 
This  was  unfettered.  The  very  leaves  looked  like  wings. 
The  fresh  breeze  and  the  broad  world  without  seemed  to 
be  longing  with  a  divine  expectancy.  His  eye  was  filled 
with  a  poetic,  heroic  dream. 

••  That  book,  chainless  and  open,  belongs  to  the  world  ; 
and  the  monk-ridden,  faithless  world  is  begging  to  re- 
ceive it,"  whispered  Vian. 

He  could  not  see  far  into  human  history.  Hut  his 
quick  instinct  and  fine  penetration  had  enabled  him  to 
apprehend  some  facts,  in  what  he  believed  to  be  the 
destined  course  of  truth-seeking  human  nature.  His 
spiritual  insight  came  upon  many  texts,  hitherto  hidden 
from  the  popular  mind,  which  when  they  should  dawn 
upon  the  aspiring  consciousness  of  circumscribed  human- 
an  was  sure  would  produce  political,  religious,  and 
social  revolutions.  With  the  Renaissance  in  his  brain, 
and  that  book  in  his  hand,  Vian  was  standing  at  the 
magnificent  gateway  which  divided  Mediaeval  from  Mod- 
ern Kurope.  With  a  sense  of  the  greatness  of  the  mo- 
ment, as  his  finger  followed  the  words  of  some  powerful 
sentence,  his  hand  touched  the  key  which  should  open 
the  portal.  He  was  only  a  poor  and  rebellious  monk  ; 
but  he  had  a  vision,  and  visions  are  unaccomplished 
history. 

A  new  race  of  Englishmen  seemed  to  spring  up  and 
become  supreme  as  he  pondered.  "These  texts  will 
transform  nations,"  he  said  ;  and  he  could  see  dynasties 
and  thrones  tumbling  down  amid  the  all-comprehending 
change.  His  eye  was  upon  that  passage  which  we  trans- 
late in  the  words,  "  Ye  shall  know  the  truth,  and  the 
truth  shall  make  you  free." 

4<  Free  ? "  said  this  enslaved  monk.  "  Free  by  the 
truth?  That  is  a  conception  of  liberty  which  the  world 
lia>  known  almost  nothing  about."  He  recalled  the  his- 


AN  UNCHAINED   BOOK.  295 

tory  he  had  learned.  "  Every  inch  of  freedom  which 
has  been  gained  has  been  won  because  the  truth  has 
been  found  out,  and  that  truth  has  become  supreme  over 
it.  Free  by  the  truth?  But  even  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church,  who  were  less  constrained  than  is  our  abbot  about 
interpreting,  —  even  they  make  this  statement  to  apply 
only  to  the  soul's  slavery  unto  sin.  Jesus  Christ,  who  spoke 
it,  was,  methinks,  greater  than  the  Fathers,  —  Jesus!" 
and  he  bowed,  while  his  soul  was  casting  off  manacles. 
"  He  was  replying  to  them  who  said,  '  We  are  of  Abra- 
ham's seed,  and  have  never  been  in  bondage  to  any  man  ; ' 
and  he  meant  to  speak  of  an  idea  of  freedom  which  in- 
cluded all  liberty.  Yes ;  all  real  freedom  has  to  be 
achieved.  It  comes  by  the  apprehension  of  truth  and 
the  use  of  it.  Liberty  to  think  is  not  the  concession  of 
the  Pope,  but  one's  personal  affair.  Freedom  for  some 
righteous  action  is  not  to  be  begged,  even  of  some  king ; 
but  it  is  something  to  be  won  by  first  winning  the  truth 
of  which  the  action  is  the  result." 

"  You  are  wandering  in  a  perilous  path,"  said  some 
one  behind  him ;  and  strong  hands  held  him,  so  that 
Vian  could  not  see  the  interlocutor,  who  spoke  with  pre- 
cisely the  tones  which  the  abbot  used  on  all  serious  occa- 
sions. "  Vian,  you  are  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
Satan,"  added  the  speaker,  who  evidently  had  overheard 
Vian's  excited  musings. 

Could  it  be  that  Abbot  Richard  was  thus  made  cogni- 
zant of  the  secret  that  more  of  intellectual  and  spiritual 
dawn  was  stealing  over  the  mind  of  the  young  monk? 
Vian  had  spoken  audibly,  he  knew  not  how  much; 
enough,  as  he  thought,  to  exile  him  forever  from  the 
abbot's  love.  To  have  heard  this  much  of  religious  and 
political  heresy  from  Vian  would  break  the  heart  of  Abbot 
Richard  Beere,  —  that  Vian  knew. 

"  Oh,  Timothy,"  pleaded  this  voice,  assuming  profess- 
edly Pauline  tones  in  uttering  that  pregnant  sadness 


296  .VO.YA'  AND   KNIGHT. 

which  seeks  the  preventive  after  the  mischief  is  done, 
"  Timothy,  shun  profane  babblings  !  " 

Yum  made  a  desperate  effort  to  turn  himself  about. 
He  must  see  the  anguish-wrinkled  face  of  the  holy  man, 
Richard  Beere.  The  sudden  movement  freed  him,  and 
he  looked  around  only  to  gaze  penitently  into  the  laugh- 
ing countenance  of  the  sly  old  Fra  Giovanni,  who  grinned 
in  triumph  and  said,  — 

'•  !>i<l  you  think  that  the  Devil  or  Abbot  Richard  had 
you,  Vim?" 

"  Both,"  was  the  answer,  as  Vian  sighed  his  relief. 

Vi.m  had  been  thoroughly  frightened,  and  was  half 
ashamed  of  himself.  To  lose  the  memory  of  it  and  to 
assure  himself,  he  launched  out  into  the  deep  still  more 
freely.  He  could  trust  the  humorous  Giovanni,  to  whom 
everything  in  the  abbey  was  absurd  and  laughable,  except 
"  the  new  learning  "  and  the  stirrings  of  reform  in  such 
as  Vian. 

"  The  whole  constabulary  of  the  Church,  instructed  to 
keep  freedom,  to  do  police  duty  for  liberty,  —  it  is  an 
abomination,  if  it  be  true  that  truth  is  the  source  of 
freedom.  It  needs  only  that  men  be  true  to  God,  to 
themselves,  and  to  the  truth." 

"  Perilou  re  these,"  said  Giovanni,  with  a  smile. 

"  It  is  perilous  to  think,  especially  when  the  mind  has 
been  used  to  have  an  institution  do  one's  thinking  for  it. 
But  I  am  serious.  If  this  Bible  ever  gets  out  into 
the  world,  the  revolution  of  which  you  have  told  me, 
which  has  been  produced  in  Italy  and  Kurope  by  Greek 
and  Roman  letters,  will  be  eclipsed  by  a  more  mighty 
revolution." 

V  sai<l  the  older  monk,  with  unwonted  solemnity, 
"  Italy  has  had  a  renaissance,  as  the  French  say ;  and  its 
straying  energies  have  entered  England.  That  was  all 
that  Greece  and  Rome  could  do,  — just  to  reach  the  brain 
of  Kurope.  This  book,"  — and  the  old  wit  put  his  hand 


AN  UNCHALVED  BOOK.  297 

upon  it,  —  "  this  book  will  reach  brain,  heart,  and  con- 
science. It  will  bring  a  reformation.  That  reformation 
will  not  stop  to  advise  with  Abbot  Richard,  or  to  consult 
with  my  old  friend  Leo  X.,  —  the  gods  be  pitiful  to  his 
Holiness  !  You  will  live  to  see  this.  Mind  you,  Vian  ! 
do  not  get  your  own  head  knocked  in  by  standing  too 
near  when  the  timbers  begin  to  fall." 

Vian  never  saw  Giovanni  so  solemn  before.  He  won- 
dered, as  the  old  monk  toddled  away  like  a  child,  if 
Giovanni  might  not  have  been  a  great  Church  Father  in 
some  other  life,  and  by  sin  have  fallen  into  being  a  sort 
of  ecclesiastical  court-fool,  who  had  some  moments  in 
which  his  pristine  mental  energy  manifested  itself.  For 
Vian  was  already  a  believer  in  the  transmigration  of  the 
soul. 

"There  !  I  must  go,"  added  Giovanni  to  the  eloquent 
silence. 

"  Farewell,  Fra  Giovanni !  "  said  Vian,  forgetful  that 
in  such  moods  the  old  monk  took  every  chance  to  poke 
fun  at  the  affectations  of  the  Renaissance. 

"  Nay ;  say  not  '  Giovanni,'  —  that  is  unclassical ;  '  Jo- 
vianus,'  Vianus  !  "  Humor  had  again  lit  her  flickering 
lights  in  the  old  man's  eyes,  which  left  Vian  amused. 

But  the  young  monk  turned  the  leaves  again,  until  he 
came  to  the  remark  of  John  the  Baptist  in  reply  to  those 
who  boasted  to  him  of  Abrahamic  ancestry.  The  signifi- 
cance of  that  reply  fell  upon  the  soul  of  Vian  like  a  dis- 
tinct revelation  :  "  God  out  of  these  stones  can  raise  up 
children  unto  Abraham." 

Vian  was  no  professional  statesman,  but  he  could  see 
even  the  best  of  aristocracies  crumble  'before  the  breath 
of  that  idea.  "  That,"  said  he,  "  was  the  idea  of  aris- 
tocracy which  gave  Greece  dreams  of  democracy."  He 
had  read  the  concluding  words  of  the  "  Republic  "  of 
Plato  with  Erasmus  himself,  when  he  waited  with  the 
sub-prior  at  Cambridge,  —  "  That  idea  was  in  the  mind 


298  MOW  A'  AND  K. \'IGHT. 

of  Savonarola  at  Florence.  Curses  upon  a  church  which 
burns  such  a  proph* 

Giovanni  had  ambled  back  again.  His  activity  had  in- 
creased his  wheeziness,  and  he  complained  of  rheumatic 
pain  ;  but  with  a  clear  understanding  of  Vian's  situation, 
he  said  :  "  Brother  Vian,  when  that  book  is  free  every- 
where, this  will  be  a  new  world.  There  will  be  no  abbey, 
no  monk ;  "  and  he  trudged  on  as  he  added  :  "  I  have 
heard  this  day  from  the  statue.  We  will  have  the  sight 
of  a  bit  of  Ati  ;gment  of  the  age  of  Praxiteles, 

right  here  in  GlastomV 

It  seeiru  :i,  as  the  Italian  monk  went 

away,  that  ce  should  come  into  England  by 

\anni  :  but  more  wonderful  than  Greece 
to  him,  was  the  fact  that  a  story  like  this  of  the  Christ  in 
his  N«  nent,  to  whose  truth  he  clung  in  spite  of 

his  passionate  attachment  to  the  doctrine  of  the  trans- 
migration of  souls,  should  just  now  be  coming  again  to 
light,  of  priests  and  crowned  heads. 

•  >pened   again,  and  his  eye   fell  upon  the  words: 
> .  n-ver  will  be  chief  among  you,  let  him  be  your 
:H." 

Oh,  if  Vian  had  known  the  persons  whom  he  seemed 

to  see  in  the  future  !     It  was  one  of  those  moments  of 

prophecy,  — "  the  testimony   of  Jesus   is  the   spirit   of 

prophecy,"  —  and  Vian  saw  republics  rise  on  the  ruins 

r.mnies,  and  democracies  replace  dynasties. 

"  That  idea  will  overturn  and  overturn,  until  no  king 
shall  be  able  to  sit  upon  his  throne,  except  as  the  voice 
of  his  people  shall  call  him  '  servant  of  all.'  '  My  Liege 
Lord '  will  have  to  be  a  minister  of  freedom  and  right- 
eousness, or  abdicate.  Just  as  surely  as  this  King  of 
Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords — Jesus  of  Nazareth — finds 
the  human  brain,  over  the  ruins  of  all  our  jewelled  crosses 
and  the  hideous  tyrannies  in  Church  and  kingdom,  men 
will  see  that  all  real  kingship  is  holy  service  to  human- 


AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK.  299 

ity.  All  authority  is  righteously  granted  only  to  a  mon- 
arch or  to  an  institution  which  executes  the  will  of  God 
in  serving  His  purpose ;  and  His  purpose  is  to  conform 
mankind,  by  the  power  of  truth  and  goodness,  into 
the  image  of  His  dear  Son.  That  is  all  there  is  of 
'  the  divine  right  of  kings ; '  and  that  is  all  there  is 
of  '  the  authority  of  the  Pope.'  " 

Vian's  eyes  were  lucent  with  these  ideas,  as  he  turned 
to  hear  footsteps  again.  They  were  the  footsteps  of  a 
friend.  Old  Giovanni  began  again,  on  his  return,  to 
eavesdrop ;  and  while  his  heart  was  stirred  with  Vian's 
prophecy,  he  was  so  bent  on  sport  with  the  brothers 
who  affected  admiration  for  Greek  art,  that  he  said,  — 

"  Brother  Vian,  let  us  flee  to  the  majestic  past.  Bother 
the  future  no  more.  I  am  about  ready  to  take  the  holy 
brethren  "  —  and  Giovanni  crossed  himself —  "  to  see  a 
fragment  of  the  Athens  of  Pericles." 

"What  was  Athens  to  the  New  Jerusalem  of  an  un- 
fettered human  society  ?  What  is  Pericles  in  comparison 
with  the  true  prince  who  shall  govern  by  the  loyal  agree- 
ment and  by  the  desire  of  those  whom  he  rules,  govern- 
ing them  because  he  has  '  the  divine  right  '  which  lies  in 
his  generous  aims  and  wise  counsels  and  uplifting  hopes 
for  all  men.  Goodness  has  the  right  to  be  sovereign,  — 
that  is  all  there  is  of  this  l  divine  right  of  kings.'  What 
is  the  past  but  a  path  to  the  future?" 

"You  are  eloquent  enough  to  please  a  Mirandola," 
said  Giovanni,  with  a  sneer  not  altogether  critical. 

"  Get  me  a  chance  to  go  from  my  Ferrara  to  some 
Florence,"  replied  Vian,  "  as  Mirandola  obtained  it  for 
Savonarola,  and  I  also  will  make  a  Lorenzo  tremble." 

"  You  will  soon  have  the  chance  to  leave  this  abbey, 
Vian ;  but  do  not  turn  reformer  until  you  see  my  statue 
which  was  found  near  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,"  interposed 
the  old  monk.  "  Perilous  times,  as  Abbot  Richard  says, 
are  these." 


3<X>  J/<9,VA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

'Ihe  more  Vian  thought  of  the  statue,  for  a  sight  of 
which  the  band  of  monks  in  Glastonbury  sympathizing 
with  the  Greek  ideal  had  longed,  the  more  he  felt  the 
significance  of  the  future.  How  could  the  human  soul 
have  entertained  such  dreams  of  beauty  as  revealed  them- 
selves in  ('.reek  art,  if  the  soul  had  not  possessed  such 
native  sonship  unto  God,  such  a  supreme  right  to  de- 
velop its  own  energies,  such  an  inalienable  hold  upon  the 
divine  will,  as  no  bishop  or  crown  could  frustrate?  The 
Renaissance  had  come,  to  make  any  kind  of  interference 
with  the  soul's  highest  possibility  seem  a  wicked  intr 
How  much  lay  before  the  human  spirit,  —  how  much  in 
the  higher,  more  complex  arts  of  government,  of  charac- 
ter-making, of  redeeming  the  material  world  and  training 
all  its  powers  into  the  service  of  man,  to  the  glory  of 
God,  his  Father !  It  began  to  come  in  sight  like  a  gor- 
geous revelation,  as  Vian  thought  of  the  emancipation 
from  hypocrisy,  pn  ml  kingcraft  which  an  open 

Bible  was  sure  to  accomplish,  and  the  omnipotent  impulse 
toward  healthful  individual  growth  which  its  teachings 
would  inspire. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he  to  Giovanni,  who  had  taken  part  in 
the  famous  controversy  between  the  so-called  "  Greeks  " 
and  "  Trojans,"  "  get  the  '  i  to  view  the  statue. 

I  am  on  fire  with  these  ideas." 
•11  will  consume  z\\ 

••No;  these  are  the  fires  with  which  the  bush  of 
Moses  burned,  but  it  did  not  consume  away." 

"Your  interpretations  of  Scripture  are  so  bold  and 
free  that  I  want  you  to  interpret  my  statue.  Come, 
Vian,  it  is  only  another  kind  of  Scripture,  as  was  all 
the  art  of  Greece,  —  psalms  in  stone,  an  exodus 
of  the  imagination,  a  conquest  of  an  intellectual  and 
spiritual  Canaan,  through  chiselling  of  rock.  Come, 
Vian 

i  Giovanni ! " 


AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK.  3OI 

"  '  Jovianus,'  please  you,  Vianus  !  "  broke  in  the  cham- 
pion of  the  Renaissance. 

"  If  I  may,  I  will  be  classical,"  said  Vian ;  "  but  these 
ideas  are  a  revelation  to  me.  They  are  disastrous  to 
much  that  I  have  been  taught.  They  burn  with  furious 
heat ;  but  surely  they  have  burned  in  the  soul  of  man  for 
many  ages,  and  they  have  not  consumed  it." 

"  Not  since  the  days  of  the  good  Pope  Sylvester,  after 
which  the  Holy  Church  became  the  dictator  of  govern- 
ment and  a  tyrant  over  the  mind,  trying  to  do  something  in 
her  ambitious  greed  of  power,  —  something  which,  by  the 
way,  must  always  be  accomplished  by  the  abandonment 
of  visible  power,  —  not  since  Constantine,  has  the  fire  of 
which  you  speak  burned  in  Christendom  as  I  have  seen 
it  burn  in  your  brain  to-day,  Vian  !  " 

"  He  who  would  be  chief,  let  him  be  the  servant  of  all," 
answered  the  young  man. 

"That,"  urged  Giovanni,  "the  papacy  has  forgotten 
ages  ago.  The  Pope  has  been  the  servant  of  nobody,  not 
even  of  God  Himself.  The  fact  is  that  the  papacy  has 
become  so  huge  that  it  has  cast  a  shadow  even  upon  the 
throne  of  the  Omnipotent,  and  obscured  it.  No;  the 
Pope  has  been  nobody's  servant,  but  he  has  made  men 
his  slaves.  Let  that  idea  burn  in  your  soul,  Vian;  it 
shall  not  consume  away." 

"Men  holier  than  the  popes  really  believe  that  the 
burning  bush  is  already  within  the  sight  of  men,"  said 
Vian,  with  seriousness.  "  Sometimes  I  hear  the  name 
of  one  who  is  thought  to  be  this  new  Moses." 

"You  remember  the  letters  of  Wycliffe  to  your 
ancestor?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  was  thinking  about  that  bush  which  burned 
and  was  not  consumed  away.  That  burning  bush  is  to 
be  seen  in  all  history.  I  feel  the  heat  of  it.  Oh,  my 
old  friend,  can  it  be  true?" 

"  Come,  Vian,  your  mind  needs  to  feast  itself,  not  with 


302  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

rough,  strong  food,  but  with  refined  and  delicious  viands. 
These  Greece  prepared  for  the  human  soul.  Let  us  get 
the  '  Greeks '  of  Glastonbury  together,  and  inspect  the 
statue,"  said  Giovanni. 

"  Not  Pericles  now,  but  rather  an  obscure  German 
monk  fills  my  mind  with  wonder.  Shall  I  admire  him? 
No,  Giovanni ;  not  Pericles  at  Athens,  but  —  " 

"  Ha  !  let  me  say  it.  I  understand  you,  Vian.  Not 
Pericles  at  Athens,"  —  the  old  monk,  breathing  with  diffi- 
culty, crept  close  and  whispered,  as  his  eye  blazed,  —  "  but 
the  monk  Martin  Luther  affixing  his  theses  on  the  great 
door,  —  this  is  the  man  and  that  is  the  scene  which 
your  soul  beholds.  Vian,  there  is  your  new  Moses  !  " 

id  there,"  said  Yian,  "  though  I  cannot  like  Luther, 
—  but  there  may  be  the  burning  bush.  I  know  that  his 
Holiness  says  that  it  is  but  a  squabble  of  monks,  a  noisy 
little  row  about  the  sacraments ;  but  mayhap  that  blus- 
tering German  monk  has  furnished  another  burning  bush. 
Erasmus  does  not  like  it,  —  /  cannot  like  the  German 
monk  !  —  but  what  if  that  bush  burns  and  does  not  con- 
sume aw. 

'•  You  begin  to  respect  your  father  at  Lutterworth," 
said  Giovanni. 

'•  I  begin  to  think  much  of  the  letters  of  Wycliffe 
which  I  believe  Abbot  Richard  has  burned  up.  There 
was  a  great  spiritual  fortune  in  that  chest ;  and  the  ab- 
bot could  not  bum  my  inheritance.  Wycliffe  also  i 
Moses.  The  intellectual  ancestry  of  the  German  monk, 
even  if  he  is  a  coarse,  boisterous,  and  unruly  fellow,  is 
illustrious." 

"  Most  of  his  ancestors  saw  the  burning  of  the  bush," 
said  Giovanni. 

1  of  them  saw  it.  It  has  never  been  quite  out  of 
sight,"  added  Vian.  "  When  Saint  Francis  organized  his 
band  of  brothers  who  opposed  avarice,  to  follow  their 
Lord  into  poverty  :  when  Thomas  a  Kempis  ignored  the 


AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK.  303 

pomp  of  men  and  preached  the  love  of  God  ;  when  Flor- 
entius  honored  only  purity  and  attacked  corruption ; 
when  John  Wycliffe  —  " 

Vian's  utterance  gave  way  to  emotion  as  he  thought  of 
his  father,  but  he  saw  in  the  lives  he  had  mentioned  the 
glorious  flame. 

"  Vian,  my  brother,  —  Vianus,  I  should  say,  —  these  are 
perilous  times.  I  hate  the  Germans.  I  like  the  calm  tem- 
per and  quiet  power  of  Master  Erasmus ;  but  even  in 
Rotterdam  they  are  now  saying  that  Erasmus  laid  the 
egg  and  this  monk,  Martin,  has  hatched  it ;  and  they 
speak  truthfully,  Vianus.  Now  for  the  statue  and  the 
Greek  critics  !  Ahem  !  Let  us  go.  Do  not  stand  by 
these  unchained  Scriptures  too  long,  or  you  will  be  a 
heretic." 

Giovanni  laughed  as  he  spoke,  for  he  had  a  conviction 
that  the  heretic  had  already  come. 


CHAITKR    XXVIII. 

AN    tNTHAINKD    BOOK. 
"  And  on  his  head  were  many  crowns." 

VIAN,  as  we  have  seen,  had  greatly  admired  what 
appeared  to  be  the  judicial  poise  and  solid  good 
sense  of  Erasmus.  The  truth  was  that  Vian  had  been 
begotten  anew  intellectually,  by  the  scholar  of  Rotterdam  ; 
and  his  gratitude  blossomed  in  imitative  affection.  It  was 
only  through  severe  self-discipline,  however,  that  now  the 
young  monk  could  wring  from  his  nature  and  experience 
a  single  Erasmian  sentiment.  Vian  was  full  of  blood  and 
fire  ;  Erasmus  was  bloodless  and  cold.  Vian  tried  to 
follow,  though  with  difficulty.  It  was  the  fury  of  the  flame 
admiring  the  crystalline  opalescence  of  the  ice-clad  cliff. 
Still  he  confessed  the  charm.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
ice  covered  the  summit,  the  red  glory  of  morning  had 
hung  upon  it  until  it  blazed  like  an  exalted  beacon. 
Vian  had  found  in  youth  the  deepest  love  for  one  whose 
restful  strength  grew  venerable  as  age  came  on.  His 
very  lively  suspicion  that  he  might  be  led  to  admire 
Luther  did  not  becloud  his  conviction  that  if  the  reform 
must  come,  it  ought  to  come  and  would  come  through 
culture  rather  than  anarchy.  Erasmus  —  such  had  been 
Vian's  sober  opinion  —  must  be  its  leader ;  not  the  tur- 
bulent monk  of  Erfurt.  The  serenity  of  Dr.  John  Colet, 


AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK.  305 

as  he  had  founded  St.  Paul's  School  in  London,  preach- 
ing reform  and  "  the  new  learning "  at  Oxford,  and 
mingling  his  own  fine  sentiments  with  the  glowing  elo- 
quence of  Thomas  More,  had  often  made  him  think  of 
that  text :  "  The  kingdom  of  God  cometh  not  with 
observation."  Vian  was  astonished  and  chagrined  at  his 
own  crude  dogmatism,  when  he  remembered  the  frenzy  of 
his  utterances  to  Giovanni  concerning  the  violent  change 
to  come. 

What  could  Erasmus  think  of  Luther's  theses  ?  What 
would  More  and  Colet  have  to  say  about  him  who  had 
already  roused  Germany  on  the  sale  of  indulgences? 
Vian  was  hesitating  again  in  the  presence  of  revered 
names. 

The  reaction  from  such  strong  convictions  as  had  as- 
serted themselves  in  his  soul  had  come.  Vian  had  well- 
nigh  expended  his  strength  in  utterance.  When  would 
Giovanni  come  to  take  him  to  see  the  fragment  of  Greek 
art  ?  He  laughed  when  he  thought  of  it,  and  then  was 
very  sober,  because,  while,  as  he  believed,  the  sly  old 
monk  had  played  and  would  play  all  manner  of  pranks 
upon  the  Glastonbury  "  Greeks,"  he  did  not  fancy  that  at 
this  time-  Fra  Giovanni  was  meaning  to  prove  to  these 
persons  who  affected  interest  and  intelligence  with  respect 
to  Greek  art,  that  they  really  knew  nothing  about  it. 

He  yet  had  in  mind  the  text,  "  The  kingdom  of  God 
cometh  not  with  observation."  He  could  not  forget  how 
diversely  he  had  spoken  of  that  German  monk  who  had 
offended  all  Erasmian  theories  with  his  noise  about  the 
indulgences,  but  who,  nevertheless,  by  his  impulsiveness 
and  humanity  had  attracted  Vian's  warm  heart.  He 
sought  the  open  Scripture,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  the  words, 
"  One  is  your  master,  even  Christ ;  "  and  "  Henceforth  let 
no  man  trouble  me,  for  I  bear  in  my  body  the  marks  of 
the  Lord  Jesus." 

These   brought  to  his  mind  the  Wycliffe  letters,  the 

VOL.  I.  —  20 


306  .i/avA-  AXD  K.\IGHT 

heroism  of  his  ancestors  at  Luttenvorth,  and  the  faces  of 
courageous  I^ollards.  "  These  burned  letters  constantly 
asserted  that  idea,"  said  Vian.  For  that  tne  Lollard 
had  stood ;  and  with  that  his  cause,  burning  with  furious 
flame,  had  illumined  Europe,  but  had  not  consumed 
away. 

Again  did  that  open  Bible  appear  to  be  an  armory 
filled  with  weapons  with  which  abuses  and  wrongs  were 
to  be  beaten  down. 

;rely  no  one  in  Wycliffe's  day  thought  that  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  was  coming  by  way  of  his  pulpit ; 
but,"  added  Vian,  "it  may  be  that  Krasmus  is  wrong, 
and  that  exactly  what  is  unobserved  power  in  the  Ger- 
man monk  will  win  the  day  for  a  less  ruggea  and  more 
pacific  solution  of  the  problem." 

Yun  had  learned  how  the  texts  of  an  open  Bible 
might  be  misapplied.  But  he  could  risk  the  power 
within  the  book,  within  the  soul  of  man,  to  enforce  the 
divine  utterances. 

The  Church  Fathers  appeared  at  once  greater  and 
smaller  than  before  to  this  scholarly  young  monk.  They 
were  greater  than  his  contemporaries,  because  they  had 
stood  in  nearer  sympathy  with  these  unencumbered 
words ;  smaller  than  the  apostles  and  prophets,  because 
even  they  dared  not  risk  the  fresh  and  revolutionary 
truth. 

Luther  the  monk  had  already  gone  so  far  as  to  insist 
that  this  unchained  book  should  be  the  book  of  the 
people.  Vian  felt  the  inrushing  day  break  over  Europe. 
It  was  but  an  instant  of  dawn  which  he  saw, — a  flush 
in  the  sky,  a  gray  streak  with  stray  beams  of  gold  and 
purple,  flashing  hints  of  oncoming  noontide.  Such  mo- 
ments were  visiting  many  souls  at  that  juncture.  Every 
gleam  was  prophetic.  None  could  utter  it ;  only  sensitive 
spirits  could  feel  it.  The  open  Bible,  —  a  new  Europe  ! 

He  thought  of  Giovanni's  coming  to  ask  him  again  to 


AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK.  307 

view  the  statue  which  the  old  classicist  insisted  he  had 
obtained  of  a  Greek  sailor  shipwrecked  near. 

"Here,"  said  Vian,  as  he  turned  to  his  New  Testament, 
and  remembered  how  every  stormy  moment  of  expe- 
rience and  every  hour  of  quiet  meditation  had  gone  into 
the  very  texture  of  the  Greek  language,  —  "  here  is  some- 
thing within  Aristotle's  language  more  philosophical  than 
he.  Here  the  glory  of  the  tabernacle  of  the  Jew  shines 
through  the  Parthenon  of  the  Greek.  Here  combine  the 
two  streams  which  have  borne  the  greatest  argosies  of 
humanity,  —  those  of  head  and  heart.  Let  Giovanni 
grow  frantic  with  rejoicing  that  he  has  secured  of  some 
hapless  sailor  a  fragment  of  the  Athens  of  Pericles  !  I 
will  tell  him  that  Athens  was  never  so  great  as  when 
Saint  Paul  looked  around  upon  the  dissolving  civili- 
zation of  Pericles,  and  made  Greek  culture  glow  with 
Christian  significance.  But  I  am  a  heretic ;  and  I  am 
drifting  even  from  the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  as  I  have 
long  since  drifted  from  Abbot  Richard.  Shall  I  pray? 
Nay ;  for  I  am  not  so  far  astray  as  was  Saint  Augustine. 
He  said,  '  Plato  showed  me  the  true  God ;  Jesus  Christ 
showed  me  the  way  to  Him.'  I  have  not  drifted  so 
far." 

Poor,  perplexed  Vian,  —  a  Christian  amid  the  dazzling 
lights  and  deep  shadows  of  the  Renaissance,  —  a  monk, 
a  heretic,  a  Pythagorean  ! 

Then  he  touched  the  volume  again,  as  a  sick  man 
takes  hold  of  a  battery.  "  Oh,  surely  there  is  promise 
in  this  freed  book !  The  Greek  language  waited  to 
carry  the  new  Iliad  into  the  human  soul." 

Why  did  not  Giovanni  come?  Vian  thought  little 
about  him  or  classic  Greece.  On  the  ruins  of  classi- 
calism  he  saw  a  new  power  rising.  By  and  by  it  would 
be  seen  to  include  the  prophetic  energies  of  olden 
times.  He  could  see  distinctly  but  two  things,  —  an 
open  Bible  and  a  new  Europe. 


3O8  AfO.VA'  .-I. YD  KNIGHT. 

How  true  was  this  vague,  prophetic  feeling!  That 
new  Europe  was  very  near,  and  stretched  afar.  With 
this  book  as  inspiration  and  resource,  William  Tyndale 
and  Miles  Coverdale  were  so  to  continue  and  complete 
the  task  of  the  Venerable  Bede  and  John  Wycliffe  as  to 
mark  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  that  language  to  be  used 
by  Shakspeare  and  Burke,  —  an  era  as  distinct  as  that 
which  Luther's  Bible  so  soon  should  mark  in  the  history 
of  a  language  to  be  such  a  potent  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  Goethe  and  Hegel.  For  this  very  act  of  heresy, 
Tyndale  was  to  be  called  "  a  full-grown  Wycliffe,"  and 
Luther  "the  redeemer  of  his  mother-tongue."  With 
the  Bible  Calvin  was  to  conceive  republics  at  Geneva, 
and  Holbein  to  paint,  in  spite  of  the  iconoclasm  of  the 
Reformation,  the  faces  of  Holy  Mother  and  Saint,  and 
in  spite  of  the  cruelty  of  the  Church,  scripturally  con- 
ceived satires  illustrating  the  sale  of  indulgences.  With 
that  book  Gustavus  Vasa  was  to  protect  and  nurture  the 
freedom  of  that  land  of  flowing  splendor  \ngelo 

was  transcribing  sacred  scenes  upon  the  Sistine  Vault  or 
fixing  them  in  stone.  Reading  this  book,  More  was  to 
die  with  a  smile  ;  Latimer,  Cranmer,  and  Ridley  to  perish 
while  illuminating  Europe  with  living  torches,  and  the 
Anabaptist  to  arouse  the  sympathies  of  Christendom  by 
his  agonies.  With  this  book  in  hand,  Shakspeare  was 
to  write  his  plays ;  Raleigh  to  die,  knight,  discoverer, 
thinker,  statesman,  martyr ;  Bacon  to  lay  the  foundation 
of  modern  scientific  research,  —  three  stars  in  the  majes- 
tic constellation  about  Henry's  daughter.  With  this  Bible 
open  before  them,  the  English  nation  would  behold  the 
Spanish  Armada  dashed  to  pieces  upon  the  rocks,  while 
Edmund  Spenser  mingled  his  delicious  notes  with  the 
tumult  of  that  awful  wreck. 

This  book  was  to  produce  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  while 
John  of  Bameveldt  would  give  new  life  to  the  command 
of  William  the  Silent,  —  "  Level  the  dikes  ;  give  Holland 


AN  UNCHAINED  BOOK.  309 

back  to  the  ocean,  if  need  be,"  thus  making  preparation 
for  the  visit  of  the  Mayflower  Pilgrims  to  Leyden  or 
Delfthaven.  Their  eyes  resting  upon  its  pages,  Selden 
and  Pym  were  to  go  to  prison,  while  Grotius  dreamed  of 
the  rights  of  man  in  peace  and  war,  and  Guido  and 
Rubens  were  painting  the  joys  of  the  manger  or  the 
sorrows  of  Calvary.  His  hand  resting  upon  this  book, 
Oliver  Cromwell  would  consolidate  the  hopes  and  con- 
victions of  Puritanism  into  a  sword  which  should  conquer 
at  Naseby,  Marston  Moor,  and  Dunbar,  leave  to  the 
throne  of  Charles  I.  a  headless  corse,  and  create,  if  only 
for  an  hour's  prophecy,  a  Commonwealth  of  unbending 
righteousness.  With  that  volume  in  their  homes,  the 
Swede  and  the  Huguenot,  the  Scotch-Irishman  and  the 
Quaker,  the  Dutchman  and  the  freedom-loving  Catholic 
were  to  plan  pilgrimages  to  the  West,  and  establish  new 
homes  in  America.  With  that  book  in  the  cabin  of 
the  "Mayflower,"  venerated  and  obeyed  by  sea-tossed 
exiles,  was  to  be  born  a  compact  from  which  should 
spring  a  constitution  and  a  government  for  the  life  of 
which  all  these  nationalities  should  willingly  bleed  and 
struggle,  under  a  commander  who  should  rise  from  the 
soil  of  the  Cavaliers,  and  unsheath  his  sword  in  the 
colony  of  the  Puritans. 

Out  of  that  Bible  was  to  come  the  Petition  of  Right, 
the  National  Anthem  of  1628,  the  Great  Remonstrance, 
and  Paradise  Lost.  With  it  Blake  and  Pascal  should 
voyage  heroically  in  diverse  seas.  In  its  influence,  Har- 
rington should  write  his  "  Oceana,"  Jeremy  Taylor  his 
"  Liberty  of  Prophesying,"  Sir  Matthew  Hale  his  fearless 
replies,  while  Rembrandt  was  placing  on  canvas  little 
Dutch  children,  with  wooden  shoes,  crowding  to  the  feet 
of  a  Jewish  Messiah. 

Its  lines,  breathing  life,  order,  and  freedom,  would 
inspire  John  Bunyan's  dream,  Algernon  Sidney's  fatal 
republicanism,  and  Puffendorf's  judicature.  With  them 


3IO  MONK  AND  KNIGHT, 

William  Penn  would  meet  the  Indian  of  the  forest,  and 
Fcnelon  the  philosopher  in  his  meditative  solitude.  Locke 
and  Newton  and  Leibnitz  would  carry  it  with  them  in 
pathless  fields  of  speculation,  while  Peter  the  Great  was 
smiting  an  arrogant  priest  in  Russia,  and  William  was 
ascending  the  English  throne.  From  its  poetry  Cowper, 
Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and  Browning  would  catch  the 
divine  afflatus;  from  its  statesmanship  Burke,  Romilly, 
and  Bright  would  learn  how  to  create  and  redeem  insti- 
tutions ;  from  its  melodies  Handel,  Bach,  Mendelssohn, 
and  Beethoven  would  write  oratorios,  masses,  and  sym- 
phonies ;  from  its  declarations  of  divine  sympathy  Wil- 
berforce,  Howard,  and  Florence  Nightingale  were  to 
emancipate  slaves,  reform  prisons,  and  mitigate  the  cru- 
elties of  war ;  from  its  prophecies  Dante's  hope  of  a 
united  Italy  was  to  be  realized  by  Cavour,  Garibaldi,  and 
Victor  Emmanuel ;  and  with  her  hand  upon  that  book 
Victoria,  England's  coming  queen,  was  to  sum  up  her 
history  as  a  power  amid  the  nations  of  the  earth,  when, 
replying  to  thq  question  of  an  ambassador,  "  What  is 
the  secret  of  England's  superiority  among  the  nations?  " 
she  would  say,  "Go  tell  your  prince  that  this  is  the 
secret  of  England's  political  greatness." 
Vian  could  not  see,  but  he  felt,  the  future. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

VIAN    THE    PYTHAGOREAN. 

Beware  of  Greek,  lest  you  become  a  heretic      Fly  from  Hebrew,  lest  you 
become  like  Jews.  —  Sixteenth  Century  Proverb. 

Somewhere,  —  in  desolate  wind-swept  space,  — 

In  twilight-land,  —  in  no  man's  land, 
Two  hurrying  shapes  met  face  to  face, 

And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"  And  who  are  you  ? "  cried  one  agape, 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 
"  I  know  not,"  said  the  other  shape  ; 

"  I  only  died  last  night." 

ALDRICH. 

WHILE  in  1518  Raphael's  unfinished  masterpiece 
"  The  Transfiguration "  was  being  borne  along 
toward  his  grave  by  the  mourning  city  of  Rome,  and 
Ami  in  France  was  beseeching  Francis  I.  to  deal  wisely 
with  the  deputations  of  Parliament  which  came  to  Am- 
boise  to  pray  for  the  abolition  of  the  Concordat,  our  dis- 
quieted monk  in  England  was  becoming  more  sure  that 
the  Almighty,  if  He  had  any  serious  intentions  whatever 
concerning  a  soul  which  seemed  doomed  to  be  tempest- 
tossed,  did  not  intend  him  to  do  Him  service  as  an  ec- 
clesiastic at  Glastonbury. 

The  hour  had  at  last  come  when  the  abbot  was  will- 
ing to  avow  that  he  himself  was  thoroughly  discouraged 


312  .lAU'A-  A.\D   KX1GHT. 

with  Vian.  "  He  will  never  be  Abbot  of  Glastonbury ; 
he  is  not  even,  an  obedient  monk,"  said  he,  regretfully. 
"  I  will,  however,  make  one  more  effort  to  convince 
him." 

In  a  brief  hour  one  of  the  priors  had  seen  Vian  read- 
ing the  words  of  Knighton,  Wycliffe's  antagonist. 

"  He  was  reading  Master  Knighton ;  and  great  was 
his  attention  to  the  wisdom  of  his  words,"  said  the  prior, 
who  always  comforted  the  abbot  with  the  most  favorable 
view  of  any  event. 

"  We  have  lost  our  pearl,  as  I  fear,  —  our  pearl  is  lost. 
Kvil  days  are  these  !  "  and  the  abbot  groaned  with  pain, 
as  he  pressed  his  heart. 

These  are  the  words  which  Vian  read  again  and  again  : 
Scripture  was  given  only  to  the  clergy  and  doc- 
tors of  the  Church,  that  they  might  administer  to  laity 
and  to  weaker  persons,  according  to  the  state  of  the 
times  and  the  wants  of  man.  But  this  Master  John 
Wycliffe  translated  it  out  of  Latin  into  the  tongue  An- 
glican —  not  Angelic  !  Thus  it  became  of  itself  more 
vulgar,  more  open  to  the  laity,  and  to  women  who 
could  read  than  it  usually  is  to  the  clergy,  even  the  most 
learned  and  intelligent.  In  this  way  the  Gospel-pearl  is 
cast  abroad  and  trodden  under  foot  of  swine ;  and  that 
which  was  before  precious  both  to  clergy  and  to  laity  is 
rendered,  as  it  were,  the  common  jest  of  both." 

When  the  prior  returned  to  Vian's  cell,  he  knew  more 
of  the  kind  of  attention  which  had  been  bestowed  upon 
those  sentences  which  the  abbot  had  placed  in  Vian's 
way. 

The  words  of  Master  Knighton  lay  on  the  floor. 
Somebody  had  stepped  upon  them  violently,  and  Vian 
was  reading  stealthily,  but  with  unquestionable  delight, 
a  copy  of  one  of  the  letters  of  Wycliffe  in  which  the  Re- 
former said,  — 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  what  cruelty  is  this,  to  rob  a  whole  realm 


VI AN  THE  PYTHAGOREAN.  313 

of  bodily  food,  because  a  few  fools  may  be  gluttons,  and 
do  harm  to  themselves  and  others  by  their  food  taken 
immoderately  !  As  easily  may  a  proud  worldly  priest  err 
against  the  Gospel  written  in  English.  What  reason  is 
this,  if  a  child  fail  in  his  lesson  at  the  first  day,  to  suffer 
never  children  to  come  to  lessons  for  this  default?  Who 
would  ever  become  a  scholar  by  this  process?  What 
Antichrist  is  this  who,  to  the  shame  of  Christian  men, 
dare  to  hinder  the  laity  from  learning  this  holy  lesson 
which  is  so  hard  commanded  by  God?  Each  man  is 
bound  to  do  so,  that  he  be  saved ;  but  each  layman  who 
shall  be  saved  is  a  real  priest  made  of  God,  and  each 
man  is  bound  to  be  a  very  priest." 

Was  the  young  monk  Vian  really  interested  in  the 
thought  that  the  Scriptures  should  be  in  everybody's 
hand?  Yes;  but  he  then  looked  upon  them  from  an 
entirely  different  point  of  view  than  that  which  was 
occupied  by  the  men  who  were  slowly  bringing  it  about. 
Vian's  attitude  was  the  intellectual  attitude  furnished  to 
him  by  his  Wycliffite  blood,  and  yet  greatly  modified  by 
the  Renaissance.  As  a  child  of  a  Lollard,  he  could  not 
help  feeling  the  immense  moral  significance  of  the  Gos- 
pels ;  as  a  child  of  the  Renaissance,  he  did  not  see  why 
any  book  should  not  have  freedom  of  access  to  men's 
thought  and  lives.  The  same  power  which  had  objected 
to  Plato  and  Cicero  now  opposed  Saint  Luke  and  Saint 
John.  He  would  meet  it  in  his  soul  with  the  same  ar- 
guments, the  soul  of  which  was  this  conviction,  —  the 
human  mind  has  the  right  to  everything ;  nothing  is  too 
sacred,  nothing  is  too  secular.  Philosophy  had  made 
"the  soul"  the  centre  of  Vian's  universe. 

Shortly  after  the  experience  with  which  his  vision- 
seeing  mind  had  indulged  itself  in  the  presence  of  that 
copy  of  the  Wycliffe  translation,  it  had  suffered,  as  such 
minds  do,  a  marked  relapse.  This  relapse  of  assurance 
as  to  the  value  of  the  Scriptures  had  not  affected  his  in- 


314  -J/aVA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

tcrcst  in  them  as  remarkable  chapters  in  the  biography 
of  human  nature,  and  as  disclosures  of  the  Divine  nature. 
It  had,  however,  affected  the  feelings,  which  any  most 
turbulent  reformer  would  have  shared,  that  they  alone 
were  to  become  the  spiritual  authority  of  mankind. 

Thus  far,  not  the  Scriptures,  but  a  vision  of  loveliness 
and  beauty,  —  the  picture  of  his  soul's  mate,  —  had  been 
authoritative  over  his  moral  nature  at  critical  moments. 
And  it  is  true  with  every  Vian  now,  as  it  was  then,  that 
whatever  other  excellent  persons  think  or  promulgate  as 
the  proper  thing  to  be  believed  as  to  the  authority  of 
Scripture,  the  Bible  has  just  as  much  authority  as  it  has, 
and  no  more.  Kvrry  man  gets  his  working  opinion  as 
to  the  future  experiences  of  men  with  a  fact  out  of  his 
own  experiences  with  that  fact. 

The  truth  is  that  soon  after  that  forelock,  so  vague  yet 
so  potent,  which  Vian  had  as  he  held  that  translation  in 
his  hand,  the  stubborn  fact  came  into  him  that  his  own 
life  had  been  kept  true  by  his  vision  of  that  beautiful 
child  of  his  boyhood  fanry.  who  was  now  growing  toward 
womanhood  ;  and  he  clung  to  the  Scriptures  because 
they /#////</  hin  eridge  says,  at  another  point  of 

his  nature. 

Was  Vian's  picture  of  truth  and  loveliness  incarnate  in 
the  form  of  this  imagined  maiden,  a  hint  of  the  necessity 
which  we  all  feel  for  an  Incarnation? 

Is  it  not  true,  also,  that  until  one  sees  in  the  Bible, 
the  One  who  says,  "  I  am  the  truth,"  the  Bible,  as  the 
record  of  truth,  has  no  absolute  primary  authority  over 
him  ;  and  it  only  remains  a  collection  of  most  interest- 
ing and  most  valuable  leaves  in  the  soul's  biography? 

i's  intellectual  interest  in  the  Scriptures  was  now 
doubled,  —  for  with  others  in  the  abbey,  he  had  been 
studying,  with  Fra  ( iiovanni,  the  philosophy  of  the  Greeks ; 
and  Yian  had  enthusiastically  embraced  the  Pythagorean 
ideas.  These  he  believed  were  entirely  harmonious  with 


vi AN  THE  PYTHAGOREAN:  315 

what  he  knew  of  the  Gospels,  and  especially,  as  we  shall 
see,  with  the  Epistles  of  Saint  Paul. 

The  Italian  monk's  hairless  pate  appeared  to  shine 
with  some  of  the  light  within  his  brain,  when  Fra  Giovanni 
proceeded,  amid  the  breathless  interest  of  his  students, 
to  wheeze  and  to  quote  the  sentences  of  Pythagoras  and 
those  of  his  disciple  Plato.  The  asthma  not  often  could 
conquer  his  enthusiasm  as  a  teacher,  —  an  enthusiasm  not 
equalled  in  any  other  task  he  had  attempted  at  Glaston- 
bury,  save  that  with  which  he  pursued  the  abbot  with  a 
threat  of  opening  the  floodgates  of  scandal,  and  that 
with  which  he  had  succeeded  in  persuading  the  Renais- 
sance monks  that  the  whitewashed  stone  figure  which  he 
had  contrived  to  obtain  of  a  stone-cutter  near  the  Cam  was 
actually  a  fragment  of  Greek  art  of  the  age  of  Praxiteles. 

As  over  and  over  again,  this  old  sport  in  realms  intel- 
lectual told  Vian  how  the  monks,  who  had  arrogated  to 
themselves  the  Greek  spirit,  stood  at  a  safe  distance  and 
chattered  in  the  happiness  that  they  were  at  last  behold- 
ing a  statue  of  Demosthenes,  when  instead  they  were 
only  looking  at  an  ill-shapen  figure  of  human  mould 
which  the  half-witted  stone-cutter  had  sold  to  Fra  Gio- 
vanni for  a  spurious  indulgence,  and  in  his  glee  at  having 
so  completely  fooled  these  wiseacres,  the  Italian  would 
choke  up ;  his  nose,  whose  color  had  gained  not  a  little  of 
its  ruddiness  from  the  wine-cellar  of  the  abbot,  became 
almost  purple,  while  he  struggled  with  his  ludicrous 
theme.  This,  however,  was  as  nothing  to  the  self- forget- 
ting excitement  with  which  he  expounded  those  ideas  of 
the  transmigration  of  the  soul  and  of  the  true  nature  of 
womankind,  with  the  truth  of  which  he  saw  Vian  had 
soon  become  duly  impressed. 

The  atmosphere  which  came  with  Fra  Giovanni  from 
the  Italy  which  had  already  been  transformed  by  the 
Renaissance  was  full  of  pollen,  and  the  open  soul  of 
youthful  England  was  ready  to  receive  it. 


3l6  '       MONK'  AND  KNIGHT. 

Fra  Giovanni  was  far  from  being  a  merely  humorous 
old  monk,  who  had  worked  his  way  to  power  by  the  eager 
use  of  the  information  which  had  reflected  unpleasantly 
upon  the  abbot.  His  very  humor  had  a  basis  of  scholar- 
ship ;  and  he  could  perfectly  exhibit  the  affectation  which 
he  now  saw  those  who  were  called  the  "  Greeks "  in 
England  were  beginning  to  practise. 

Much  of  the  history  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  was  at 
length  repeating  itself,  even  in  the  courts  and  abbeys  of 
Britain.  Even  the  imitation  of  the  ancients  was  flagrant 
in  the  Ciceronians,  whom  Erasmus  had  ridiculed  ;  and 
the  liberal  use  of  sentiments,  names,  and  classical  allusions 
in  conversation  had  become  a  ridiculous  travesty  to  the 
mind  of  the  monk.  Day  by  day  he  had  observed 
here  what  Italy  had  experienced ;  namely,  a  slavish 
emulation  of  Greek  or  Roman  thought.  Again  did  the 
world  see  the  saints  of  the  calendar  go  unconsulted 
in  the  naming  of  a  child ;  and  instead  of  Ambrose 
came  Achilles ;  instead  of  Ruth,  Atalanta ;  instead  of 
Paul,  Hector.  Giovanni  amused  himself  by  begging 
to  be  called  Jovianus ;  and  he  listened  as  he  smiled  at 
the  mention  of  Pierius  for  Peter,  as  once  he  had  heard 
the  Italian  Gianpaolo  called  Janus  Parhasius.  Architec- 
ture was  looking  backward  in  Yian's  mind,  as  he  still 
talked  with  the  abbot,  —  backward  even  to  the  Roman 
liasilicae,  where  Christianity  was  born.  Erasmus  had 
listened  to  a  sermon  in  Italy,  which  now  did  not  seem  so 
remarkable,  because  in  talk  and  public  speech  God 
Almighty  was  often  called  Jove  ;  His  son  Jesus,  Apollo ; 
and  Mar>',  the  mother  of  God,  Diana.  The  genius  of 
Thomas  More  was  writing  an  epigram  in  which  Caesar 
and  the  Nervii  change  places  with  Henry  VIII.  and  the 
French,  while,  as  before  in  Italy,  Ctirtius  or  Cecrops  or 
Iphigenia  was  useful  to  illustrate  the  power  of  that  divine 
passion  which  issued  in  the  death  of  Christ.  Cardinal 
Wolsey  was  called  an  augur ;  and  the  nuns  of  Mynchin 


VI AN  THE  PYTHAGOREAN.  317 

Buckland  were  denominated  Vestals  by  the  little  knot  of 
"  Greeks  "  at  Glastonbury.  The  hymnologists  knew  more 
of  Parnassus  than  of  Calvary;  and  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death  of  the  Psalmist  gave  place  to  Tartarus 
and  Acheron. 

"  Now,"  said  the  paganism  of  Giovanni,  "  is  the  time 
to  spread  Pythagorean  ideas,  when  Cardinal  Wolsey  will 
recreate  the  palace  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  at  Hampton." 

Giovanni  was  to  be  disappointed  in  the  luxurious  car- 
dinal, who  was  to  be  a  statesman  almost  in  spite  of  his 
tastes ;  but  in  Vian  he  was  not  to  be  disappointed.  Not 
many  months  had  gone  by  until  the  special  features  of 
this  philosophy  which  interested  Giovanni  had  a  new 
champion. 

"  Why,"  said  Vian  to  the  sub- prior  one  day,  as  they 
walked  toward  the  cloisters,  "  the  doctrine  that  the  soul 
has  had  a  previous  existence,  and  is  on  its  way  through 
this  existence  to  others,  is  the  only  doctrine  which  will 
account  for  some  of  those  memories  which  come  up  out 
of  some  past  and  steal  like  clouds  over  the  mind's  sky." 

"  You  have  got  even  Giovanni's  wheeze,  Vian  !  By 
all  the  saints,  I  did  not  know  that  your  description  had 
come  to  this,"  said  the  sub-prior,  with  an  effort  at  being 
caustic. 

"Yes,"  lanquidly  replied  Vian;  "I  suppose  I  shall 
catch  bald-headedness  too.  Fra  Giovanni  has  wonderful 
powers  of  inoculation.  His  logic  confounds  me.  Bald- 
headedness  is  a  fact.  The  transmigration  of  souls  is  a 
fact.  I  am  amenable  to  facts1;  but  I  must  not  — " 
and  then  Vian,  seeing  that  he  had  plunged  into  logical 
or  illogical  quagmires,  out  of  which  his  fresh  philosophic 
possessions  would  hardly  extricate  him,  added  with  a 
deeper  voice  :  "  I  do  not  know  enough  truth  yet  to  man- 
age the  errors  which  beset  me.  But  I  cannot  see  that, 
on  the  principles  of  Giovanni's  logic,  I  can  avoid  being 
bald-headed  —  " 


3l8  Jl/O.YA'  .-MY;   A'XIGHT. 

"  And  being  asthmatic,"  said  the  sub-prior,  laughing ; 
"  but  what  about  your  own  soul,  Vian  ?  " 

"  1  would  rather  talk  about  that,"  said  the  new-fledged 
Pythagorean,  who  with  the  usual  audacity  of  a  young 
philosopher  willingly  attacked  the  most  serious  problems, 
in  order  perhaps  that  he  might  escape  the  primary  diffi- 
culties. "  I  know  that  I  must  have  lived  somewhere 
before  this  life  began." 

"  How  did  you  get  here?  "  asked  the  sub-prior. 

"  My  death  out  of  the  last  life  was  my  birth  into  this 
life.  My  death  out  of  this  life  will  be  my  birth  into  the 
next,"  answered  Vian.  "  You  have  read  Ovid's  poem  on 
our  old  master  Pythagoras  ?  " 

•   No." 

'•  Well,"  and  Vian  stood  up  in  the  sunlight  as  it  came 
flooding  in  upon  the  cloisters,  "  I  will  recite  some  lines 
which  Kra  Giovanni  read  to  us  yesterday  from  Ovid,  — 

1  Death,  so  called,  is  but  old  matter 
In  some  new  form.     And  in  a  varied  vest 
From  tenement  to  tenement,  though  tossed, 
The  soul  is  still  the  same,  the  figure  only  lost , 
And  as  the  softened  wax  new  seals  receives. 
Its  face  assumes,  and  that  impression  leaves, 
Now  called  by  one,  now  by  another  name, 
The  form  is  only  changed,  the  wax  the  same. 
Then,  to  be  born  is  to  be?in  to  be 
Some  other  thing  we  were  not  formerly. 
The  forms  are  changed,  I  grant ;  that  nothing  can 
Continue  in  the  figure  it  began.'" 

'•  You  mean  to  tell  me,"  inquired  the  sub-prior,  "  that 
men  of  sense  in  ancient  times  did  actually  believe  such 
stuff?  This  must  have  an  end." 

"  Certainly  ! "  said  Vian,  assuming  a  grandiose  air, 
and  fearing  nothing,  now  that  the  abbot  was  at  Par- 
liament. "  Men  of  sense  now  believe  the  truth  that 
the  soul  has  transmigrated  and  will  transmigrate. 
They  believe  it  just  as  did  Pythagoras  and  Plato  and 
Plotinus." 


VI AN  THE  PYTHAGOREAN  319 

"  Oh,  philosophers,  all  of  them,  Vian,  —  hair-brained 
men  \  " 

"Ah,"  added  Vian,  with  warmth,  "Virgil  and  Ovid 
believed  it." 

"  Poets,  poets  !  Philosophers  are  poets  who  write  fa- 
bles in  prose,  and  poets  are  philosophers  who  write  fables 
in  verse." 

"  Caesar  was  a  hard-headed  fellow,  was  he  not?  " 

"  He  did  not  believe  in  it." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  he  found  that  the  Gauls  did  be- 
lieve it,  and  all  our  forefathers  in  Britain  as  well." 

"  The  whole  crowd  which  you  mention  was  a  crowd  of 
heathen." 

Vian's  authorities  had  not  been  so  satisfactory  even 
to  himself  as  he  could  have  desired,  until  he  had  be- 
gun to  read  again  his  Wycliffe  translation  of  the  New 
Testament. 

With  the  same  facility  with  which  thousands  since  his 
day  have  read  their  creeds  into  a  book,  most  of  which 
they  easily  toss  aside  if  need  be,  had  this  ambitious  ex- 
positor handled  the  Gospels  and  Epistles.  He  was  fresh 
from  his  labors  in  that  direction ;  and  now  he  proposed 
to  overwhelm  the  sub-prior  with  authorities  which  such 
an  ardent  Churchman  could  not  resist. 

"  The  Scriptures  themselves  proclaim  it.  Do  not  let 
this  assertion  of  mine  take  your  breath  !  "  said  Vian. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  Fra  Giovanni  finds  his  breath 
short  in  teaching  such  profanity,"  remarked  the  sub- 
prior,  whose  face  was  beclouded.  "  But  proceed  !  I 
shall  not  be  amazed  at  anything  now.  I  was  with  you 
once  at  Cambridge.  We  heard  strange  doctrines  there ; 
but  Erasmus  never  dreamed  of  this." 

"  I  will  proceed,"  said  Vian.  "  When  at  the  Augustin- 
ian  Monastery  the  other  day,  you  and  I  heard  them  teach 
that  all  men  sinned  in  Adam,  and  are  guilty  of  Adam's 
transgression —  " 


32O  MO.YA'  A. YD   K'XIGHT 

"That  is  no  more  Augustine,"  said  the  sub-prior, 
"than  it  is  Saint  Paul;  for  Saint  Paul  says,  'All  have 
sinned.'  '* 

s,"  interrupted  Vian,  "even  so;  but    how  could 
you  have  sinned  in  Adam  if  you  were  not  there?" 

The  sub-prior  shook  his  head,  but  it  was  the  move- 
ment of  an  unconverted  head. 

hen,"  said  Vian,  "  then  all  sin  which  is  so  active 
within  us  now  is  from  an  older  life.  That  is  '  the  man  of 
sin.'  Saint  Paul  himself  tells  us  of  his  conflict,  —  the  war 
between  the  one  man  and  the  other  in  him  ;  the  old  man 
and  the  new.  You  remember  *  the  old  man '  and  •  the 
new  man'  in  Saint  Paul?" 

•  Which  man  is  Saint  Paul? " 

••  Why,"  said  the  startled  Pythagorean,  who  now  saw 
that  he  had  one  man  too  many  on  his  hands,  —  "  why, 
Saint  Paul  had  lived  before  this  life.  He  had  —  " 

The  sub-prior  took  courage  at  Vian's  evident  perplex- 
ity, and  broke  forth  again  with  the  old  effort  at  being 
caustic  :  "  There  may  be  four  Saint  Pauls  in  his  next  life, 
if  this  multiplication  keeps  up.  Oh,  nonsense,  Vian  !  " 

"  Wiser  Churchmen  than  you  have  accepted  and 
preached  this  truth,"  said  Vian  smartly,  gaining  his  feet. 
"  Origen  —  " 

"  He  was  heretical." 

"  So  is  every  man  who  is  greater  than  the  common- 
place men  about  him." 

"  Well,  who  else  ? "  inquired  the  sub-prior,  com- 
placently. 

"  Philo  himself  said  that  the  soul  had  lost  its  heavenly 
home,  and  come  down  to  the  earthly  body  as  to  a  strange 
place.  Clement  of  Alexandria  and  Porphyry  found  the 
doctrine  in  Saint  Paul." 

"  Porphyry  has  no  authority  at  Glastonbury,"  said  the 
dignified  sub-prior. 

"  Well,"  inquired  the  disturbed  Vian,  "  who  has?  " 


VI AN  THE  PYTHAGOREAN.  321 

"  Ah,  Vian,  you  have  !  You  have  assumed  it  over 
your  own  mind.  This,"  —  and  now  the  sub-prior  assumed 
the  august  importance  of  a  defender  of  the  faith,  —  "  this 
is  all  the  upshot  of  this  disobeying,  free-thinking  ten- 
dency which  Erasmus  himself  has  started,  and  which  John 
Colet  and  Thomas  More,  —  God  be  thanked,  Thomas 
More  now  sees  the  error  !  —  this  is  all  of  it  the  result  of 
what  they  have  encouraged  in  England.  Germany  is 
alive  with  heresy." 

"  Why,"  said  the  surprised  Vian,  "  you  have  lost 
ground,  since  you  read  the  Greek  poets  so  delightedly  in 
secret  !  ". 

"  I  have  found  the  ends  of  some  of  these  perilous  roads 
which  I  have  been  travelling  with  men  who  ought  to  have 
known  better;  I  see  now  what  the  outcome  of  all  this 
will  be.  As  I  said,  the  air  of  Germany  is  poison  itself. 
We  can  have  no  Holy  Church  at  all,  if  this  keeps  up. 
That  monk  Luther — " 

"  I  do  not  like  the  turbulent  fellow.  I  understand  he 
does  not  like  Erasmus  or  his  New  Testament." 

"  Well,  turbulent  or  calm,  any  man  who  'protests  now 
is  simply  starting  a  revolution  which  will  end  by  making 
every  man  his  own  guide  and  priest.  The  protesters  do 
not  agree ;  they  will  protest  against  one  another,  and 
there  will  be  no  Church  at  all.  Vian,  you  have  wit 
enough  to  see  in  what  direction  things  are  going." 

Vian  had  thought  of  all  this;  and  lover  of  order,  ad- 
mirer of  power  as  he  was,  seeing  also,  as  he  did  from  a 
merely  intellectual  point  of  view,  the  necessity  for  some 
kind  of  an  organization  which  should  hold  society  to- 
gether, he  had  often  been  disturbed  at  the  disorganizing 
tendencies  of  some  of  these  movements. 

But  for  the  present  he  was  under  the  dominion  of 
another  idea.  His  moral  life  had  never  felt  the  touch 
of  the  Church,  and  he  seemed  to  be  within  touch  of 
an  idea  which  might  league  itself  somehow  with  that 

VOL.  I. —21 


322  A/O.YA'  A.\D   KNIGHT. 

vision  of  his  soul's  mate,  and  help  him  to  solve  practical 
problems. 

He  said  :  '•  Hut  what  has  all  that  to  do  with  the  truth 
or  untruth  of  the  doctrine  of  Pythagoras?  If  the  Scrip- 
tures teach  it,"  —  and  now  to  Vian's  somewhat  refreshed 
mind  the  Scriptures  did  teach  it,  —  "  why  should  you  ask 
any  questions?" 

••  Who  interprets  the  Scriptures?  "  asked  this  authority 
of  the  Church.  "  You  do  for  yourself.  There  is  the  as- 
sumption of  your  individual  mind  again,  Vian, — the  curse 
these  protesters  will  bring  upon  us  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Vian,  "  what  do  you  do  with  such  a  Scrip- 
ture as  this  :  '  Who  hath  chosen  us  before  the  foundation 
of  the  world  '  ?  Origen  himself  could  not  be  heretical 
enough  to  take  the  truth  out  of  it.  We  were  somewhere 
when  God  made  His  choice  of  us.  And  then  there  is 
this  Scripture :  *  If  ye  will  receive  it.  this  is  Hlias  which 
was  for  to  come.'  That  is  the  word  of  Jesus  Christ  him- 
self about  the  man  whom  men  knew  at  that  time  as  John 
the  Baptist.  Kven  John  did  not  deny  the  assertion  that  he 
was  Elijah  reincarnated.  Jesus  said  :  '  Before  Abraham 
I  am.'  " 

The  sub-prior  was  now  the  perplexed  one.  "  I  have 
always  been  unable  to  understand  those  texts,"  said  he, 
with  evident  honesty. 

"  They  are  no  more  hard  to  the  mind  than  are  the  ex- 
periences of  such  a  soul  as  yours,"  said  Vian,  adding  to 
the  sub-prior's  perplexities  by  summoning  more  difficulties 
to  his  overwhelming. 

4-  What  do  you  mean?  " 

They  had  strolled  together  beyond  the  chapel,  and 
were  looking  over  the  Avalonian  hills. 

••  We  certainly  come  into  the  world  with  more  than 
ourselves,"  continued  Vian.  "  There  is  a  treasured  up 
amount  of  experience  which  we  have  had  somewhere  else 
to  begin  this  life  with.  Then  the  new  experience  which 


VI AN   THE  PYTHAGOREAN.  323 

we  have  here,  —  some  of  it  we  can  attach  to  the  old, 
some  of  it  we  cannot.  What  we  are  to-day  and  what 
we  see  to-day  are  determined  in  no  little  measure 
by  what  we  brought  out  of  the  other  life.  'To  him 
that  hath  shall  be  given ;  to  him  that  hath  not  shall  be 
taken  away  even  that  which  he  hath.'  Have  you  never 
had  dreams?  " 

"  In  daytime?" 

"  Yes ;  dreams  of  old  places  and  beautiful  skies,  or  of 
sorrows  which  you  could  not  have  had  here,  —  perhaps 
also  of  love?" 

"  Ah,  Vian,  you  have  touched  me  now.  I  have  had 
memories  which  I  could  not  obliterate  nor -quicken  into 
definite  experiences.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  am  very  old, 
very  old.  Then  I  remember  a  youth  which  was  far  away, 
and  then  some  one  else  whose  life  I  have  lived  seems 
to  be  speaking.  I  do  not  dare  to  go  to  certain  cells 
in  the  abbey,  because  there  I  have  felt  that  I  may 
meet  an  old  self.  I  know  there  are  songs  I  have 
not  heard  here  which  I  must  have  heard  elsewhere ; 
and,  Vian,  you  know  I  am  not  carnally  minded,  but 
I  have  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  kisses  which  seem 
to  float  to  my  lips  from  some  sweet  past.  Is  this  what 
you  mean?  " 

"  Precisely,"  said  Vian,  who  looked  at  the  somewhat 
shrunken  and  dry  lips,  and  immediately  pitied  the  sub- 
prior  because  he  was  not  a  Pythagorean.  "  But,  now, 
how  is  it  that  you  do  not  fear  the  effect  of  this  reliance 
upon  your  individual  experience  in  this  controversy? 
You  are  as  bad  as  any  protester  in  your  assertion  of  the 
authority  of  the  -individual.  On  the  matter  of  your 
own  experience,  then,"  added  he,  tauntingly,  "you  are 
authority." 

The  sub-prior's  head  was  full  of  another  set  of  prob- 
lems. Vian  saw  it,  and  went  on  to  say  :  "  Why,  Pythago- 
ras, our  master,  remembered  his  previous  existences. 


324  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

He  was  a  herald  once,  named  ^thalides ;  then  a  Tro- 
jan called  Euphorbus.  No  wonder  that  you  dread 
the  old  cell,  if  as  a  monk  you  did  any  such  thing  as 
dream  of  loving  anybody  in  that  other  life,  —  for  it 
is  real ;  this  memory  is  true.  Pythagoras  found  in  the 
temple  of  Juno  at  Argos  the  very  shield  with  which,  when 
he  was  Euphorbus  in  the  Trojan  War,  he  had  attacked 
Patroclus." 

The  sub-prior  was  beginning  to  be  annoyed  with  the 
names  of  people  of  whom  he  had  never  heard,  and  like 
a  swimmer  in  strange  seas,  he  anxiously  paddled  back 
where  the  water  was  no  less  deep,  even  if  the  shore  was 
more  familiar. 

"  But,"  said  he,  as  an  assembly  of  carrion  crows 
wheeled  about  in  the  upper  distances  and  slowly  found  a 
path  unseen  through  the  purple  haze  to  some  carcass 
hidden  amid  the  little  trees,  —  "  but  the  souls  of  men 
then  transmigrate  into  the  birds  or  beasts  which  at  death 
or  birth  they  most  resemble." 

"  Those,"  said  Vian,  pointing  to  the  fading  specks  in 
the  sky,  "  are  souls  in  penitential  agony.  They  are  the 
spirits  of  lovers  of  scandal.  They  have  to  content  their 
gross  appetites  on  decaying  animals  now ;  they  used  to 
content  themselves  on  the  simple  prospect  of  a  decaying 
character.  Poor  things  ! "  Then  Vian  quietly  quoted 
Ovid  again  :  — 

"  Souls  cannot  die.     They  leave  a  former  home, 
And  in  new  bodies  dwell,  and  from  them  roam. 
Nothing  can  perish,  all  things  change  below  ; 
For  spirits  through  all  forms  may  come  and  go. 
Good  beasts  shall  rise  to  human  forms,  and  men, 
If  bad,  shall  backward  turn  to  beasts  again. 
Thus  through  a  thousand  shapes  the  soul  may  go, 
And  thus  fulfil  its  destiny  below." 

The  sub-prior  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
said  with  feeling,  "  Well,  I  should  be  glad  to  find  some 
philosophy  which  would  give  us  a  new  chance ;  "  and  he 


VIAN  THE   PYTHAGOREAN.  325 

added,  "  But  this  is  very  fascinating,"  as  he  hurried  away 
to  attend  to  duties  now  too  long  postponed. 

It  was  now  Vian's  turn  to  be  honest  with  his  most  re- 
mote doubt ;  for  two  certain  reflections  had  annoyed 
him.  "  But,"  said  he,  "if  I  have  only  two  rocks  against 
which  I  may  perhaps  go  to  pieces,  that  is  a  smaller 
number  of  perils  than  I  ever  confronted  before ;  and  if 
these  two  rocks  are  far  enough  apart,  I  may  be  able  to 
sail  between  them." 

The  one  difficulty  concerned  itself  with  the  reverence 
and  worship  which  Vian  had  hitherto  given  to  the  Holy 
Virgin.  How  could  he  still  look  with  prayerful  awe  upon 
her  lovely  Majesty,  and  still  hold  that  every  woman  was 
but  some  man  who  had  sinned  in  some  previous  exist- 
ence, and  had  thus  suffered  retribution?  Just  this  idea 
even  the  greatest  of  Pythagoreans  had  hinted  at  as  the 
explanation  of  the  fact  of  womankind. 

The  other  difficulty  was  of  the  same  sort,  —  both 
were  rocks  whose  bases  met  beneath  a  shallow  sea.  It 
concerned  itself  with  that  vision,  —  the  dream  picture  of 
his  childhood. 

The  mate  of  his  soul  whom  he  had  met  so  often  in 
vision,  in  spite  of  Abbot  Richard  and  the  penances,  had 
now  grown  almost  to  fancied  womanhood.  Still  she  re- 
mained, —  the  one  ideal  of  his  spirit,  the  inspiration  and 
guide  of  his  life.  Often  he  seemed  to  hear  her  voice  or 
to  feel  the  glorious  presence  near. 

Still,  if  she  lived  anywhere,  she  was  a  woman  ! 

He  had  come  to  look  upon  her  as  some  one  whom 
he  had  known  in  some  other  life,  so  thoroughly  had 
she  possessed  his  mind  and  heart  in  this  life.  Hardly 
had  Vian  thus  accounted  for  the  powerful  influence 
of  this  exquisite  dream  upon  him  by  certain  princi- 
ples of  Pythagoreanism,  until  he  was  assured,  by  cer- 
tain other  principles  of  that  philosophy  as  Giovanni 
understood  it,  that  the  picture  itself  was  of  saddest  sig- 


326  .1/aVA"  ,l\D   KNIGHT. 

nificance.     His  darling  was  growing  up  in  his  soul  to  be 


a  woman 


That  meant  of  course  that  she  had  been  a  man  in  some 
other  life,  and  had  sinned.  It  seemed  incredible  to  his 
brain  and  cruel  to  his  heart. 

"  Oh,  if  only  we  could  take  portions  of  these  philoso- 
phies and  creeds,  and  believe  them,  life  would  be  toler- 
able," cried  Vian,  as  he  sought  sleep  that  night  in  vain. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

A    CALL   UPON   THE    CARDINAL. 

"  Cloth  of  gold  do  not  despise, 

Though  thou  match  with  cloth  of  frieze; 
Cloth  of  frieze,  be  not  too  bold, 
Though  thou  match  with  cloth  of  gold." 

AT  the  hour,  in  1517,  when  the  Lateran  Council  con- 
cluded its  tasks,  the  city  of  Rome  appeared  again 
to  be  as  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  Caesar,  —  the  centre 
of  the  world  ;  and  the  Pope  was  the  governing  soul  of 
all.  But  religious  Caesarism  had  now  had  its  brightest 
days.  The  seven  hills  of  Rome  no  longer  had  room  for 
the  diversified  interests  of  man.  The  centre  of  the  world 
was  elsewhere.  Even  spiritual  monarchy  no  longer  gov- 
erned absolutely. 

Barefooted  Leo  X.,  in  a  procession  which  repeated 
the  prayers  newly  set  up  in  all  the  churches,  saw,  or 
thought  he  saw,  rising  at  his  desire,  a  world-wide  crusade 
against  the  Turk.  In  his  fancy,  the  Emperor  of  the  Ger- 
mans was  already  crossing  the  Danube  ;  Henry  VIII.  and 
Francis  I.  were  sailing  together,  united  at  last  with  his 
Holiness,  as  their  ships  swept  over  the  Mediterranean 
toward  a  conquest  of  Constantinople.  Everything  seemed 
leagued  against  the  Turk.  Cardinal  legates  had  been 
sent  to  the  courts  of  Europe  ;  and  a  five  years'  truce  had 
been  proclaimed. 


328  J/O.VA-  AXD   KXIGIIT. 

If  Leo  X.  had  looked  westward  before  hi*  eyes  had 
been  dazzled  by  a  sun  which  so  rapidly  -was  leaving  the 
East,  he  would  have  seen  the  advancing  of  long  lines  of 
purple  and  gray  and  gold,  whirh  would  have  told  him  that 
the  true  crusader,  following  after  Columbus,  would  move 
in  a  direction  entirely  opposite  to  this  churchly  goal,  and 
that  in  Wittenberg  was  a  single-handed  monk  whom  he 
must  consult  before  there  could  be  a  common  cause  worth 
the  attention  of  Christian  princes.  True,  the  Greek 
scholars  who  were  exiled  from  Constantinople  in  1453, 
had  fired  the  soul  of  the  Pope  with  an  enthusiasm  against 
the  Turk  which  no  other  Pope  had  known.  Hut  they  had 
initiated  a  westward  march.  I^o  X.  was  also  in  many 
regards  the  general  in  control  of  the  forces  of  the  R 
sance.  He  saw  that  it  was  possible  to  recover  the  Par- 
thenon, perhaps  also  the  manuscripts  of  Homer  and 
<l  and  ^Eschylus,  as  well  as  the  grave  of  the  Christ  ; 
for  which  recovery  other  crusades  had  set  out.  What 
though  as  yet  Christendom  did  not  share  his  admira- 
tion for  such  spoils  as  the  statues  of  Praxiteles  or  the 
decorations  of  the  Temple  of  Athene  !  Still  would  Kurope 
see  to  it  that  the  Turk  was  beaten  back  ;  and  with  it  all, 
he  would  fill  the  splendor  of  the  unfinished  St.  Peter's 
with  the  choicest  of  the  glories  of  ancient  Greece.  It 
n  most  respects,  a  worthy  dream.  But  even  Greek 
ideas  had  been  making  other  visions  in  the  human  mind, 
which  were  to  league  themselves  with  a  movement  that 
Leo  X.  had  scarcely  stopped  to  respect. 

Said  Erasmus :  "  I  wish  that  even  the  weakest  woman 
might  read  the  Gospels  and  the  Epistles  of  Saint  I  'aul.  But 
the  first  step  to  their  being  read  is  to  make  them  intelli- 
gible to  the  reader.  I  long  for  the  day  when  the  hus- 
bandman shall  sing  portions  of  them  to  himself  as  he 
follows  the  plough,  when  the  weaver  shall  hum  them  to  the 
tune  of  his  shuttle,  when  the  traveller  shall  while  away 
with  their  stories  the  weariness  of  his  journc 


A    CALL    UPON  THE   CARDINAL.  329 

In  1516  the  New  Testament  of  Erasmus  had  been 
printed ;  and  even  Bishop  Fox  had  remarked,  "  It  is  as 
good  as  ten  commentaries."  The  Renaissance -had  again 
robed  itself  as  a  reformation. 

But  naturally  enough  did  Leo  X.,  Henry  VIII.,  Charles 
of  Austria,  and  Francis  I.  soon  turn  from  such  an  event 
as  the  printing  of  a  book,  to  the  question  as  to  which  one 
of  these  earthly  sovereigns  should  succeed  to  a  throne 
made  vacant  by  the  death  of  Maximilian,  in  January, 
1519.  Leo's  idea  of  a  crusade  had  long  before  this  been 
shattered.  Wolsey  had  so  treated  Cardinal  Campeggio, 
who  was  sent  to  England  as  papal  legate,  as  to  leave  no 
doubt  in  the  mind  of  his  Holiness  that  England  and 
Henry  VIII.  at  present  proposed  to  offer  no  obsequious 
respect  to  Rome.  The  marriage  which  the  Pope  had 
arranged,  whereby  Francis  I.  was  to  have  been  attached 
to  the  papal  see,  had  eventuated  in  another.  Charles 
was  too  powerful  in  Italy  to  please  the  Pope,  as  a  can- 
didate for  Charlemagne's  throne;  and  Henry  VIII. 
looked  on  through  the  scheming  eyes  of  Cardinal  Wolsey 
as  Francis  I.  offered  abundant  gold  and  brilliant  prom- 
ises, writing  to  his  great  rival  these  words  :  "  Two  l6vers 
are  we,  wooing  the  same  mistress ;  and  whichever  she 
may  choose,  should  be  looked  upon  with  no  envy  by 
his  fellow-contestant." 

Ami  sat  at  Amboise  with  Astre"e,  rehearsing  to  her  the 
objections  which  he  had  urged  upon  his  sovereign  against 
this  course,  telling  her,  as  her  dark  eyes  looked  into  his 
restless  soul,  how  impossible  such  an  ambition  was  of  fulfil- 
ment, and  assuring  her  who. at  that  hour  loved  him  more 
than  all  the  prospective  emperors  of  earth,  that  Cardinal 
Wolsey  was  so  managing  affairs  that  the  new  emperor 
and  Francis  I.  should  seem  to  be  foes. 

Back  came  the  four  hundred  German  lanzknechts 
and  Admiral  Bonnivet,  who  looked  more  stupid  than  ever 
to  Ami,  as  the  admiral  stood,  without  his  four  hundred 


33O  MO.VA'  ./.\7>    h'XIGIU 

thousand  crowns,  to  tell  Francis  I.  ho\v  he  promised 
Cardinal  Wolsey  fourteen  votes  for  the  papal  chair  in 
vain,  how  the  wily  cardinal  quietly  aided  the  nephew  of 
Katherine  of  Arragon  his  queen,  and  how  Charles  was 
elected  king  of  the  Romans. 

In  England,  at  that  moment,  Bishop  Fox  and  Thomas 
More  were  both  bewailing  the  absence  of  Erasmus,  whom 
v  had  offended  by  offering  him  only  a  prebend  at 
Tournay;  and  Henry  VIII.  remarked  that  he  had  prom- 
ised himself  that  he  would  not  remove  his  beard  until  he 
had  met  the  King  of  France,  and  that  Francis  I.  had  said, 
"  I  protest  I  will  never  put  mine  off  until  I  have  seen  the 
King  of  England." 

1  things,"  again  said  Pace,  "are  full  of  deceit,  'et 
-  non  dormit.'  " 

In  the  early  evening  of  September  6,  1519,  Abbot 
Richard  Beere  of  Glastonbury,  riding  on  Wolsey's  mule, 
which  his  Eminence  had  sent  to  London  for  his  use, 
looked  restively  from  the  river  Thames  on  his  right,  over 
the  elm-trees  which  shaded  the  slight  undulation  at  his 
left,  as  he  approached  that  impressive  collection  of  clois- 
irrets,  parapets,  lattices,  and  red  brick  walls  known 
H  H.impton  Court.  Long  lines  of  wood  flanked  the 
stream  at  intervals ;  and  in  and  out  flew  the  fly-catchers. 
The  brook -wagtails  were  wading  over  the  gravel  near  the 
edge  of  the  stream,  as  it  reappeared  to  his  view;  and 
early  as  it  was  for  him,  now  and  then  a  jacksnipe  fas- 
tened the  attention  of  the  tree-creepers  which  looked 
down  upon  him  from  the  branches  above  the  oozy  bogs. 
On  the  other  side,  in  a  small  patch  of  scrubby  heath  and 
gorse,  hedge-sparrows  and  black  buntings  were  flitting 
about.  The  reeds  in  the  stream  were  unmoved  with 
the  soft  fading  summer  breath  which  was  vanishing  before 
the  autumn  ;  and  the  low  hum  of  insects  round  about  the 
bushes  which  hung  over  and  dipped  into  the  stream, 
seemed  perfectly  harmonious  with  a  silent  farewell  which 


A    CALL    UPON   THE   CARDINAL.  331 

was  breathing  itself  out  of  the  ample  sky  to  the  summer 
time. 

The  mule  had  been  jogging  on  easily,  until  the  abbot 
saw  before  him  the  red  glory  of  the  cardinal's  garden, 
luxuriant  in  that  early  autumn  day,  whereat  he  compelled 
the  animal  to  slacken  his  pace,  and  turning  to  look  upon 
the  willows  fringing  the  stream,  the  hedgerows  extending 
far  beyond  the  mighty  oaks  which  appeared  as  the  sym- 
bol of  power,  he  said,  — 

"  Even  Nature  herself  is  magnificent  in  the  presence 
of  such  a  magnificent  person.  Here,"  added  the  anti- 
quarian soul  of  Abbot  Richard,  "  where  the  Hospitallers 
of  St.  John  were  abolished,  comes  this  our  cardinal, 
eight  stout  oarsmen  rowing  him  down  the  river  Thames 
from  Whitehall,  to  show  all  Churchmen  how  to  live 
in  splendor." 

It  had  been  a  perplexing  day  for  the  cardinal  at  West- 
minister Hall ;  but  to  the  astonishment  of  the  abbot,  he 
was  ushered  in  at  once,  and  found  himself  again  before 
Thomas  Wolsey,  who  just  now  had  pushed  aside  con- 
siderations from  Whitehall,  the  college  at  Oxford,  foreign 
ambassadors,  despatches  from  his  agents  everywhere,  and 
even  Henry  VI 1 1.,  to  give  some  directions  concerning 
the  paling  which  was  to  divide  the  parks,  and  the  color 
for  the  bricks  of  the  buttressed  wall. 

Gloomy  as  had  been  the  mind  of  Abbot  Richard,  as  he 
thought  of  parting  with  Vian,  the  hour  had  come  when 
he  was  a  burden  at  Glastonbury ;  and  the  soul  of  his  old 
friend  believed  that  so  marked  and  various  were  his 
talents  that  only  such  a  leader  as  Wolsey  could  com- 
mand them  all.  Richard  Beere  knew  the  cardinal  so 
well  that  he  never  feared  that  Vian's  heresies  would 
annoy  him,  or  block  up  the  path  to  the  young  man's 
advancement.  The  abbot  was  an  ecclesiastic  always, 
sometimes  a  politician ;  Wolsey  was  always  a  politician, 
and  sometimes  an  ecclesiastic. 


332  MONK  AXD   K'KIGIIT. 

• 

"  Others  may  not  surround  their  houses  and  gardens 
with  a  moat,"  said  the  cardinal.  "  It  is  a  custom  quite 
sure  to  die;  but  so  also  the  custom,  if  so  it  may  be 
called,  of  asking  one  such  as  I  am  to  such  perilous 
tasks,  — that  will  die.  I  however  shall  defend  myself." 

Abbot  Richard  was  never  so  impressed  by  his  own 
admirable  self-command. 

Together  they  looked  with  Master  I^aurence  Stubbes  at 
the  plans  for  the  ornamentation  of  the  palace.  The 
abbot  was  amazed.  He  had  seen  Wolsey  in  public,  and 
he  remembered  the  magnificence  ;  but  such  private  splen- 
dor surpassed  his  fancy. 

In  the  morning  there  was  but  one  topic.  Over  and 
over  again  did  they  talk  of  Vian's  acquaintance  with  archi- 
tecture, of  his  rare  good  sense  and  his  exquisite  taste. 
Of  his  learning,  virtue,  and  force  of  mind,  Wolsey  had 
informed  himself  at  a  previous  time. 

Public  business  was  pressing;  and  Wolsey,  having 
spoken  the  word  which  made  Yian  his  servant,  dismissed 
the  abbot  with  his  affectionate  farewell. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE    FIELD    OF   THE   CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 
"  Good  friends,  French  and  English." 

A  PPEARING  like  a  vague  but  shining  certainty  for 
2~\.  many  months  before  the  minds  of  French  and 
English  statesmen  and  politicians,  was  the  proposed 
interview  between  the  two  sovereigns,  which  at  length 
was  to  leave  only  a  fairy  page  in  the  record  of  pageantry, 
and  to  be  known  as  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold." 

To  the  amazement  of  Wolsey,  Vian,  who  had  always 
hitherto  appeared  interested  in  grave  and  significant 
things,  proved  himself,  in  the  discussions  of  plans,  cere- 
monials, and  proposed  buildings,  to  be  the  only  man  of 
his  acquaintance  able  to  conceive  and  execute  a  scheme 
which  would  worthily  attest  the  seeming  importance  of 
this  royal  interview.  He  had  learned  enough  of  archi- 
tecture at  Glastonbury,  where  Richard  Beere  was  splen- 
didly memorializing  his  own  faith  in  the  Holy  Church, 
to  confound  the  architects  about  Hampton  Court  and 
Whitehall  with  questions  which  they  could  not  answer, 
and  plans  which  they  did  not  comprehend.  He  was, 
for  so  young  a  man,  a  master  of  French  as  well  as  of 
English  history ;  and  he  united  to  Wolsey's  love  of  pomp 
and  circumstance  his  own  interest  in  the  proper  arrange- 
ment of  shields  and  banners. 


334  .lAM'A"  .-M7>    h'NIGHT. 

Hi  irafl  unable  to  hold  his  own  place,  in  such  a  busi- 
ness, in  one  realm  alone.  Knighthood  he  did  not  know, 
save  in  tin-  translation  of  the  "  (  lests  of  King  Arthur " 
and  in  "1  1  'his,  under  the  circumstances,  how- 

ever, did  not  trouble  him. 

••  \->  to  the  lists,  arming  and  barbing  of  steeds,  arranging 
of  combatants,  an  1  conduct  of  the  jousts,"  said  Vian  one 
day,  in  the  presence  of  the  luxurious  Sir  Richard  Wing- 
field,  ambassador  to  France,  who  had  been  appointed  to 
succeed  the  niggardly  Sir  Thomas  Boleyn,  "  I  am  assured 
that  I  may  trust  entirely  to  the  young  knight  of  the 
French  Court  who  has  all  those  matters  in  charge.  He 
.  orite  of  Bayard  ;  and  he  is  a  scholar  as  well  as  a 
knight." 

The  courtly  Sir  Richard  bowed  his  head  in  assent,  and 
added  :  '•  A  wonderful  man  is  he.  He  is  beloved  by 
as  is  no  other  man  in  his  kingdom.  Indeed, 
it  is  said  in  France,  that  it  was  by  a  wise  word  of  the 
young  knight  that  the  king  saved  himself  at  Marignano. 
Hi>  Holiness  has  presented  him  with  a  jewel;  and  his 
heart  is  with  a  maiden  within  the  French  court." 

i  listened  attentively  to  this  remark,  and  forgot  it 
hen  the  4th  of  June  came. 

Interminably  long  and  complex  seemed  the  necessary 
r  itions  for  this  magnificent  interview.  Probably 
history  records  no  such  prodigal  expenditure  of  color  and 
sound  for  so  little  value  received.  Of  Francis  I.  and 
Henry  VIII.  it  must  be  said,  that  each  was  a  luxurious 
monarch  who  hoped  to  impress  the  other  with  his 
resources  and  magnificence.  Wolsey,  who  had  been 
appointed  proctor  by  both  kings,  was  conscious  of  an 
ambition  to  outshine  every  rival  in  Church  and  State.  As 
he  blunderingly  talked  over  the  precedents  of  chivalry 
with  Vian,  his  eyes  brightened,  and  he  was  pleased  beyond 
measure  at  recitals  of  silk,  tapestries,  and  glittering  arms. 
The  time  itself,  as  we  have  seen,  breathed  such  ostenta- 


'  THE   FIELD   OF  THE   CLOTH  OF  GOLD,        335 

tious  competition  in  the  minds  of  sovereigns.  The  fancy 
of  the  age  burst  forth  in  one  last  glowing  eulogy  of  decay- 
ing chivalry ;  and  in  the  presence  of  ideals  which  it  did 
not  comprehend  or  discern,  it  luxuriantly  decorated  the 
dissolving  dream  of  ancient  pageantry. 

"  The  young  knight,  Ami  Perrin,  —  is  that  the  name  ? — 
he  must  not  be  allowed  to  outrival  us  in  splendor,"  said 
the  cardinal. 

"  Sir  Richard  has  his  ear  close  to  the  zealous  courtier," 
replied  Vian  •  "  and  Sir  Richard,  for  England's  honor,  tells 
me  all.  Like  the  King  of  France  himself,  his  trusted 
soldier  seems  courteous  and  consenting.  I  like  the 
knight  Ami." 

"  Courteous  and  consenting,  Vian?  Let  him,  then, 
arrange  with  his  sovereign  Francis  I.  for  a  longer  proro- 
gation of  the  interview,  in  order  that  we  may  bring  to 
a  happy  conclusion  our  communication  with  Emperor 
Charles  V.,"  said  Wolsey,  who  had  begun  to  trust  Vian, 
with  all  State  secrets,  and  who  especially  desired  to  talk 
over  the  possibility  of  making  an  alliance  between  Henry 
VIII.  and  the  emperor. 

Queen  Katherine  herself,  the  emperor's  aunt,  did  not 
more  truly  desire  to  postpone  the  interview  with  the 
French  monarch  than  did  Wolsey.  But  e  ren  Wolsey's 
sickness  in  April  could  not  stand  in  the  way.  The 
neglected  and  unseemly  fields  —  Guisnes  and  Ardres  — 
must  be  cleared  up,  and  the  tedious  romance  enacted. 

Up  to  the  very  day  of  the  interview,  rumors  ran  from 
court  to  court,  threatening  to  set  all  preparations  at 
nought. 

Summoned  at  once,  on  his  arrival  in  England,  into  the 
presence  of  Wolsey,  Vian  was  confronted  by  the  report 
that  amid  the  duplicities  of  Wolsey  himself,  the  cardinal 
had  detected  the  French  monarch  engaged  in  operating 
a  plan  dishonorable  and  crafty. 

"  Tell    me,"    said    the     angry  'cardinal,    "  are    large 


336  MOM  AXD  KNIGHT. 

bodies  of  men,  armed  and  belligerent,  secretly  hid  in 
the  field?" 

"  By  the  honor  of  the  young  knight  whom  I  trust,  I  say 
to  your  eminence,  Nay  !  "  answered  Vian. 

••  \\'hy  do  you  not  swear  by  the  honor  of  Francis  I., 
King  of  France?"  inquired  his  Grace. 

"He  has  none,"  answered  Vian. 

"  By  your  own  honor,  swear  !  " 

"  I  have  already  promised  you,  my  Lord  Cardinal,  that 
all  shall  be  well.  My  promise  is  my  oath." 

The  cardinal  extended  his  hand,  and  Vian  kissed  it. 
The  fact  is  that  Vian  had.  ten  days  before,  for  the  first 
time  met  the  young  knight  in  close  and  earnest  debate 
on  this  delicate  subject.  On  that  occasion  Ami,  with 
whom  Vian's  official  relation  to  the  proposed  interview 
had  brought  him  into  intimate  association,  had  proved 
himself  a  knight  indeed.  The  report  to  which  Wolsey 
alluded  had  produced  its  effect  upon  Vian  ;  and  the  busy 
notes  of  labor,  as  it  wove  the  subtle  melodies  of  color 
upon  the  field  of  Guisnes,  were  stopped  suddenly,  when 
he  was  informed  that  twelve  large  vessels  had  been 
equipped  by  the  French  King.  English  monk  and 
French  knight  stood  opposed  for  an  hour  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  make  Sir  Richard  Wingfield  and  Admiral 
Bonnivet,  who  depended  upon  the  young  knight  Ami  as 
did  Cardinal  Wolsey  upon  the  young  monk  Vian,  tremble 
for  the  result.  After  the  hot  words  and  mutual  conces- 
sions to  courtesy,  Ami  produced  assurances  signed  and 
sealed  by  Francis  I.,  and  Sir  Richard  agreed  to  forward 
them  to  Wolsey  at  Hampton  Court.  No  one  rejoiced  more 
heartily  in  the  vanishing  of  the  clouds  than  Francis  I. 

Charles  V.,  who  had  been  for  a  time  in  Spain,  was  now 
nearer  than  ever  to  the  ear  of  Wolsey.  "  The  emperor," 
said  the  knight  to  the  monk,  "  does  not  mean  that  our 
sovereigns  shall  negotiate  with  friendliness,  or  arrange 
their  affairs  in  love." 


THE  FIELD   OF  THE   CLOTH  OF  GOLD.        337 

"Not  seven  thousand  ducats  as  a  pension,  nor  two 
Spanish  bishoprics,  can  shake  the  desire  of  my  Lord 
Cardinal  for  the  interview  between  their  Majesties," 
answered  the  monk. 

The  knight  smiled ;  and  Vian  saw  that  Ami  had  as 
much  faith  in  the  honor  of  the  English  Cardinal  as  he 
himself  had  in  that  of  the  French  Sovereign. 

Charles  V.  was  not  to  be  circumvented.  May  26 
came ;  and  Vian  handed  to  his  Majesty  at  Canterbury, 
at  which  place  the  English  monarch  had  stopped  on  his 
way  to  the  place  of  embarkation,  the  information  that  the 
Emperor  Charles  V.  and  his  fleet  had  arrived  at  the  port 
of  Hythe. 

"  Politics  and  ecclesiastics  are  much  alike,"  said  the 
audacious  Vian  to  Cardinal  Wolsey,  "  especially  when  the 
Pope  is  concerned  in  both." 

"The  loftiest  place  in  politics,"  replied  the  wary 
cardinal,  "  is  an  ecclesiastical  one ;  and  the  most  impor- 
tant position  in  ecclesiastics  is  a  political  one." 

The  papal  chair  seemed  again  to  rise  like  a  possible 
possession  before  the  eye  of  Wolsey  the  Chancellor ;  and 
unconsciously  his  sovereign,  Henry  VIII.,  was  already  in 
training  for  the  headship  of  the  English  Church.  In 
after  years  Wolsey's  remark  appeared  to  Vian  to  have 
been  another  unnoticed  testimony  to  his  incomparable 
genius. 

Before  a  week  had  gone,  Henry  VIII.  and  Charles  V. 
had  repaired  together  to  the  cathedral  at  Canterbury, 
stood  lovingly  before  the  bones  of  Saint  Thomas  a  Becket, 
and  arranged  their  affairs  so  unanimously  that  the  King 
of  the  Germans  and  Spaniards  had  no  fear  of  Francis  I. 
Even  Cardinal  Wolsey  could  now  enjoy  the  galas  of  the 
"Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,"  as  he  should  muse  on  the 
promise  of  Charles  the  Emperor,  that  he  would  help 
him  to  the  papacy. 

Conscious  that  if  any  two  of  the  three  young  sovereigns 
VOL.  i.  —  22 


338  MO.\'/C  A. YD   KXJGHT. 

irope  should  enter  into  offensive  and  defensive 
alliance  against  him,  the  third  would  be  conquered,  each 
one  of  the  sovereigns  themselves,  the  Pope  at  Rome, 
and  above  all,  Italy,  galled  by  the  Austrian  yoke,  knew 
the  significance  of  any  union  of  the  houses  of  Valois  and 
Tudor.  Charles  V.  had  anticipated  fate.  While  the 
young  French  knight  was  congratulating  the  English 
monk,  on  May  30,  that  their  task  as  servants  of  the  two 
courts  was  so  happily  concluded  to  the  spoiling  of  the 
plans  of  Charles  V.,  that  calculating  monarch  was  rejoicing 
over  his  bloodless  victory  at  Canterbury,  as  he  said  to  his 
quieted  soul,  — 

••  It  is  well  that  the  brilliant  pageant  about  to  occur  at 
(iuisnes  has  been  already  transformed  into  a  gorgeous 
farce.  The  alliance  of  the  lilies  of  France  with  the 
leopards  of  England  would  be  equal  to  the  dismemberment 
of  half  our  enij 

I  )id  the  masterful  monarch  perceive  that  the  battle  of 
Pavia  was  just  ahead  ? 

The  day  for  the  interview  dawned  over  that  arid  plain 
which,  by  the  intelligence  and  skill  of  Vian  and  Ami, 
instnicted  and  emtx->ldened  as  they  were  by  Cardinal 
Wolsey  and  Admiral  Honnivet.  had  been  transformed 
into  a  gigantic  dream  of  unparalleled  magnificence. 

"Men  might  say, 

Till  this  time  pomp  was  single  ;  but  now  married 
To  one  above  itself.     Each  following  day 
Became  the  next  day's  master,  till  the  last 
Made  former  wonders  its.     To-day  the  French. 
All  clinquant,  all  in  gold,  like  heathen  gods, 
Shone  down  the  English  ;  and  to-morrow  they 
Made  Britain  India :  every  man  that  stood, 
Showed  like  a  mine." 

Amid  it  all,  however,  there  were  two  men  to  whom 
life's  realities  had  become  so  identified  with  struggles  — 
one  a  struggle  of  the  intellect  toward  freedom,  the  other 
a  struggle  of  conscience  toward  purity  —  that  whatever 


THE  FIELD   OF  THE   CLOTH  OF  GOLD.        339 

else  men  might  lose  or  gain,  for  contemporary  politics 
or  personal  glory,  they  were  predetermined,  by  the  fatal- 
ity of  significant  circumstances,  to  find  each  for  himself, 
on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,"  an  important  date, 
a  memorable  milestone.  These  were  the  English  monk 
and  the  French  knight. 

Francis  I.  of  France  already,  as  we  have  seen,  had 
learned  to  find  his  happiest  moments  in  the  society,  not 
of  his  queen,  but  rather  in  that  of  Mme.  de  Chateau- 
briand. Life  was  richest  and  poorest,  as  he  walked  with 
this  favorite  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  or  gayly 
rowed  with  her  over  the  smooth  Seine.  In  vain  had  the 
king  sought  to  make  Ami's  love  for  Astre"e  a  cloak  for 
royal  iniquity.  He  had  used  everything  else  but  Ami's 
conscience.  But  in  vain,  also,  did  the  knight  seek  to 
render  his  sovereign's  court  at  Guisnes  irreproachable  by 
the  absence  of  this  favorite,  or  at  least  by  her  wise  acqui- 
escence in  arrangements  which  would  not  humiliate  the 
neglected  Queen  Claude  in  the  presence  of  Katherine, 
who  up  to  that  hour  had  kept  the  love  of  her  royal 
husband,  Henry  VIII.  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  had 
trampled  in  more  serious  ways  upon  Ami's  sagacious 
counsels  to  Francis  I.  She  was  for  war  with  Charles  V. 
So,  also,  was  Louise  of  Savoy.  One  held  this  position 
because  of  her  ambition  for  a  commonplace  brother ;  the 
other,  because  of  her  ambition  for  a  royal  son. 

Never  had  the  favorite's  plans  come  so  near  to  Ami's 
heart  with  a  wound  as  now.  The  prudent  knight  was 
deeply  pained,  when,  on  the  arrival  of  the  French  court 
from  the  capital,  he  perceived  in  the  midst  of  the  court- 
ladies  his  own  Astree,  compelled  by  the  king  to  appear 
at  the  side  of  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand.  Rage  took  pos- 
session, for  a  moment,  of  Ami's  heart  and  hand.  But 
he  was  a  knight  and  a  lover.  Instantly,  as  he  beheld 
AstreVs  innocence,  his  soul  was  melted  from  stern  and 
sharp  opposition  into  affectionate  welcome  and  joy. 


340  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  Surely,"  thought  he,  "  the  reins  of  political  power 
are  no  longer  mine  to  hold ;  but  my  love  shall  be  mine 
own,  though  every  ceremony  fail  and  the  pageant  t'ule 
away." 

He  had  been  more  than  anxious  that  some  of  the 
words  which  the  monk  Vian  had  recently  said  to  him 
might  be  spoken  in  the  hearing  of  Astree.  He  was 
fully  conscious,  as  Vian  had  told  him  of  his  life  at  (ilus- 
tonbury  and  of  the  growth  of  the  Reformation  ideal  in 
England,  that,  in  circumstances  which  often  threatened 
to  overwhelm  them,  each  was  fighting  a  distinct  battle 
against  a  common  foe.  The  old  knighthood  had  gone, 
and  the  new  knighthood  had  desired  a  kind  of  purity 
which  the  Church  did  not  foster.  The  old  monastic 
scholarship  had  also  departed,  and  "  the  new  learning  " 
reated  by  the  Holy  Church  with  tortures  or  with 
contempt.  He  was  also  aware  that  each  was  making  a 
desperate  attempt  to  keep  in  hearty  loyalty  to  the  insti 
tution  itself.  Neither,  as  yet,  had  conceived  it  possible 
for  the  world  to  exist  without  an  authoritative  Chun  h. 

They  had  even  talked  over  the  event  of  Wittenberg,  — 
ninety-five  theses  posted  on  the  gate  of  the  castle  church, 
October  31,  nearly  three  years  before  !  Vian  had  con- 
fided to  Ami  the  secret  that  Wolsey  had  besought  him, 
who  had  so  little  genuine  faith  in  the  Holy  Church,  to 
assist  his  sovereign  Henry  VIII.,  who  had  even  less  faith 
in  the  popes  and  bishops  at  Rome,  in  the  completion  of 
a  book  against  the  heresy  of  Luther,  —  a  work  whirh 
Henry  VIII.  had  meditated  at  least  since  June,  1518, 
and  of  which  he  had  written  to  Pace,  his  secretary,  —  a 
work  which  the  cardinal  thought  wretchedly  incomplete, 
until  some  more  learned  man  than  the  king  should  sup- 
ply its  defects  in  the  history  of  the  sacraments. 

"  It  is  yet  undone,"  said  Vian  ;  "  but  when  amity  is  re- 
stored between  the  sovereigns,  we  shall  behold  a  king 
attending  to  a  captious  monk." 


THE  FIELD   OF  THE   CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


341 


Ami  replied,  "  Perhaps  there  are  more  of  such  monks 
than  of  such  kings." 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  consumed  with  the  old  protest- 
ing fire  with  which  he,  a  child  of  a  Waldensian,  looked 
so  deeply  into  the  soul  of  a  Wycliffite's  son. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

JEALOUSY   AND   MAGNIFICENCE. 

Their  dwarfish  pages  were 
As  cherubins  all  gilt ;  the  madames  too, 
Not  used  to  toil,  did  almost  sweat  to  bear 
The  pride  upon  them,  that  their  very  labor 
-  to  them  as  a  painting ;  now  this  mask 
Was  cried  incomparable ;  and  the  ensuing  night 
Made  it  a  foul  and  beggar.     The  two  kings, 
Equal  m  lustre,  were  now  best,  now  worst, 
As  presence  did  present  them,  —  him  in  eye 
Still  him  in  praise,  and  being  present  both 
'T  was  said  they  saw  but  one,  and  no  discerner 
Durst  wag  his  tongue  in  censure.     When  these  suns 
(  For  so  they  phrase  them )  by  their  heralds  challenged 
The  noble  spirits  to  arms,  they  did  perform 
Beyond  thought's  compass. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  events  of  which  history  has  preserved  many 
descriptions,    at    length    commanded    laborious 
attention. 

Yian  had  exhausted  the  lore  of  precedents  as  to 
buildings  and  banners ;  Ami  had  taxed  his  learning  con- 
cerning chivalry  and  royal  ceremonial.  One  had  his 
mind  full  of  altar-cloths,  vestments,  images,  jewels,  and 
names  of  church  dignitaries;  the  other's  intellect  was 
crowded  with  visions  of  lances,  doublets,  bows  and  ar- 
rows, crests,  troops  of  cavalry,  heralds  and  pursuivants, 
and  the  names  of  the  princes  of  the  blood. 


JEALOUSY  AND  MAGNIFICENCE.  343 

At  length  Wolsey,  attended  by  a  shining  retinue,  with 
solemn  magnificence  rode  over  two  leagues,  toward  the 
tents  and  pavilions  which,  with  ornamentation  of  gold 
and  silver,  had  been  fitted  up  with  halls,  galleries,  and 
chambers,  outside  the  walls  of  Ardres,  as  the  lodgings  of 
the  French.  As  he  saw  the  gilt  figure  of  Saint  Michael, 
mantled  with  blue,  holding  a  fiery  dart  and  bearing  the 
emblazoned  shield  of  France,  he  said  to  Vian,  — 

"  Our  French  cousins  have  great  art  in  them,  Vian,  but 
they  know  not  all  the  arts  of  politics." 

The  monk  made  response  by  silence.  He  then  knew 
that  he  had  loaned  his  abilities  to  the  creation  of  a 
phantasm. 

No  one  of  the  fifty  gentlemen  of  the  household,  who, 
with  bonnets  in  hand,  sat  resplendent  with  golden  chains 
on  velvet-clothed  horses,  heard  the  remark.  The  huge 
gold  maces  and  the  shining  pole-axes  trembled  not,  nor 
did  the  vast  crucifix  of  gold  and  gems  tax  unduly  the 
hooded  and  crimson-robed  cross-bearer,  who,  with  the 
lackeys  following  beneath  waving  plumes,  still  believed 
in  the  sincerity  of  the  skilful  and  magnificent  Wolsey. 

He  was  riding  behind  them,  looking  out  from  beneath 
his  red  hat,  whose  tassels  fell  about  his  face  and  hid  his 
calm  and  arrogant  eye,  his  imperious  and  regnant  lips, 
his  determined  and  commanding  jaw.  His  very  trusty 
mule  was  so  covered  with  gold  and  color  as  to  rival  in 
splendor  eve^i  the  bishops  and  archers  who,  with  the 
grand  prior  of  Jerusalem,  made  up  his  train. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  Vian,  "  the  human  soul  is  loaded  down 
with  trappings  of  another  age.  What  if  they  be  gold,  if 
yet  they  enslave  !  " 

As  Vian  helped  the  cardinal  to  dismount,  Ami,  in 
obedience  to  Bonnivet,  ordered  the  discharge  of  artillery, 
which  with  its  incessant  roar  was  thundering  amid 
drums  and  blaring  trumpets.  The  tumult  drowned  the 
soft  and  affectionate  tones  in  which  the  King  of  France, 


344  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

bonnet  in  hand,  received  the  accredited   representative 
of  the  English  throne. 

the  departure  of  the  Lord  Cardinal,  Vian,  who  re- 
mained with  Ami  to  further  some  arrangements  as  to  the 
visit  of  ceremony  which  on  the  next  day  was  to  be  paid 
by  the  French,  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  ladies 
whose  dresses  were,  in  his  eyes,  only  as  rich  as  they  were 
immodest.  Pearls  and  gold  vied  with  color  and  the 
rarer  gems  to  enrich  the  velvets  and  silks  in  which  these 
courtly  dames  of  France  appeared. 

Amid  all  this  female  ostentation,  nothing  seemed  so 
supernally  beautiful  to  the  eye  of  the  English  monk  as 
the  modest  and  quiet  damsel  whose  soft  dark  eyes 
brightened  into  vivid  recognition  of  the  name  he  bore, 
whose  exquisite  lips  parted  with  the  least  mechanical  of 
smiles  which  Vian  had  ever  seen  upon  a  woman's  mouth, 
and  whose  words  evidently  came  from  such  a  simple  and 
refined  soul  as  he  fancied  lived  only  in  heaven.  It  was 
Astr£e ;  and  Ami,  with  a  dominant  sense  of  her  loveliness, 
had  presented  Vian  to  his  love,  with  a  most  knightly  re- 
mark as  to  Vian's  intelligence  and  abilities.  He  had, 
however,  hardly  completed  his  sentences,  when  he  be- 
came startled  at  his  own  feelings. 

"  Fortunate  knight ! "  said  the  scholarly  Englishman 
to  Ami,  as  they  went  about  their  duties.  '•  Such  a  face 
redeems  the  court  of  France ;  such  an  eye  would  rein- 
vest the  decaying  knighthood  of  Europe  with  the  soul 
of  the  oldest  chivalry." 

The  remark  only  added  pain  to  Ami's  self-discovery. 
He  thought  only  once  of  Xouvisset's  corrective  words. 

Somehow  Ami  could  not  easily  get  his  own  words  to  fol- 
low one  another,  as  they  had  done.  Vian  standing  there 
in  the  glow  of  the  evening,  his  fine  nostril  dilating  still 
with  the  high  excitement,  his  eyes  strangely  abysmal 
and  poetic  in  the  fervid  light,  because  of  something,  — 
Vian  looked  altogether  too  intellectual,  too  unearthly, 


JEALOUSY  AND  MAGNIFICENCE.  345 

too  learned,  too  interesting.  Astre"e  must  have  felt  the 
charm  ! 

Vian  attempted  to  talk  with  Ami  about  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  mimic  combats,  in  which  already  the  troops 
of  cavalry  were  indulging  as  they  were  going  through 
their  manoeuvres ;  but  Ami  was  questioning  his  own  soul 
as  to  what  Astr£e  could  have  meant  when  she  said  to 
him  that  this  man  Vian  looked  as  Nouvisset  had  de- 
scribed the  knight  of  the  future,  —  "a  conqueror  with 
accepted  truth  as  his  shield  and  unaccepted  truth  as  his 
sword." 

Vian  tried,  also,  to  dispose  of  the  cofferer  and  master- 
masons,  who,  with  hundreds  of  bricklayers  and  servants 
of  all  sorts,  were  demanding  to  be  set  to  a  task  in  the 
morning ;  but  Ami  was  of  little  assistance. 

His  vision  was  beclouded  with  the  besetting  query, 
"  Why  did  I  not  at  once  seize  the  occasion,  and  tell  her 
girlish  trustfulness  that  this  Vian  is  a  monk,  and  a  monk 
discredited  by  Glastonbury  Abbey  too?" 

The  great-voiced  chamberlain  could  get  no  satisfactory 
answer  to  his  questions,  when  they  were  propounded  to 
Ami.  Even  the  warder  who  had  in  charge  the  shipping, 
was  disgusted  at  the  knight's  heavy  manner.  Still  were 
the  claret  fountains,  "  fed  by  secret  conduits  hid  beneath 
the  earth,"  spouting  forth  their  treasures  into  golden 
vessels  and  silver  cups;  and  still  was  Vian  wondering 
what  could  have  broken  in  upon  the  strong,  calm  current 
of  Ami's  intellectual  life. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Vian,  "  he  has  had  some  unfortunate 
news  from  the  capital ;  I  will  not  disturb  the  privacy  of 
his  suffering." 

All  night  long  Vian  kept  dreaming  or  thinking  of  the 
rigidity  with  which  his  new-found  friend  —  as  he  ven- 
tured to  call  him  —  bade  him  farewell,  and  the  evidence 
of  unpleasant  and  unremitting  intellectual  labor  with 
which  his  face  was  so  strangely  clouded. 


346  J/0.VA'  AND   K'NIGHT. 

Day  came,  however,  and  with  it  another  of  those  elabo- 
rate processions  which  suited  not  the  more  profound 
and  comprehensive  ideas  that  had  dominated  the  souls 
of  the  knight  and  the  monk.  These  thoughts  came 
to  Vian  with  more  force,  because  Lord  Shrewsbury,  who 
was  steward,  and  Essex,  who  was  marshal,  had  each  ex- 
pressed his  contempt  of  some  of  the  arrangements  whose 
conception  had  originated  with  Vian. 

"I  fancy  that  if  the  German  monk  lives,  and  the 
Church  goes  on  blessing  ignorance  and  cursing  scholars, 
there  will  be  more  important  processions  than  these," 
said  the  nettled  monk. 

At  the  same  moment  Ami,  in  AstreVs  hearing,  had 
uttered  his  contempt  for  the  whole  performance.  Astr£e 
knew  not  why  he  should  so  warmly  say,  — 

"  The  monk  Martin  Luther,  opposing  the  sale  of  in- 
dulgences, was  a  much  more  inspiring  scene  for  a  Chris- 
tian to  behold,  than  Wolsey  on  his  mule." 

I.,  who  through  Ixniise  of  Savoy  had  be- 
gun again  to  suspect  Ami  of  some  sort  of  religious  heresy 
which  might  embarrass  politics,  felt  that  at  the  earliest 
hour  he  must  bring  him  under  the  influence  of  a  con- 
servative companion. 

"  Who  could  be  more  likely  to  serve  the  king  in  hold- 
ing Ami  fast  to  the  Holy  Church  than  the  English  monk 
whom  he  has  so  admired  in  these  days  at  Ouisnes?"  said 
Louise  of  Savoy  to  his  Majesty. 

He  resolved  to  bring  them  together  soon,  and  further 
to  cement  a  friendship  which  he  did  not  fancy  had 
suffered  the  slightest  fracture. 

The  next  day  the  French  returned  the  visit  of  the 
English ;  and  Ami,  who  under  Astree's  eye  had  quite 
rallied  from  his  discomfiture  of  the  day  before,  warmly 
greeted  Vian,  who  was  more  than  delighted  with  his 
courtesy.  The  ceremonies  attendant  upon  the  meeting 
of  the  two  monarchs,  on  Thursday,  June  7,  were  soon 


JEALOUSY  AA^D  MAGNIFICENCE.  347 

completed  ;  and  Wolsey  and  Bonnivet,  placing  the  care 
of  other  days  into  the  hands  of  those  persons  selected 
for  the  honor,  granted  blessings  upon  the  monk  and  the 
knight,  who  henceforth  might  consider  themselves  as 
guests  of  both  sovereigns. 

"  I  am  miserable  enough,"  said  Ami  to  Astre"e,  as  the 
long  shadows  began  to  fall  upon  the  heads  of  countless 
bills  and  lances  without  the  pavilion,  and  through  the 
plain  and  bowed  windows  separated  by  golden  columns, 
died  away  until  they  were  lost  among  the  silver  pillars, 
heavy  with  arabesques  and  enamelled  ornaments  that 
contrasted  magically  with  the  gay  fringes  which  hung 
over  the  heads  of  these  lovers. 

"  Miserable  with  me  in  your  arms?"  she  inquired,  as 
she  looked  up  into  his  fiery  eyes. 

Ami  yielded  not  his  grasp  as  he  protested :  "  You  are 
all  that  might  reconcile  me  to  this  continuous  parade 
of  lies.  I  am  afraid  that  everything  but  you  may  prove 
untrue." 

"  That  is  a  sweet  faith  for  a  lover,  until  the  loved 
one  finds  that  experience  with  disappointing  people  has 
created  the  suspicion  that  some  day  the  best  loved  shall 
also  prove  a  disappointment,"  quietly  lisped  the  dear 
lips,  which  now  kissed  one  of  those  fiery  eyes. 

"  I  wish  you  could  kiss  me  blind,"  said  he,  sharply. 

"  You  are  adding  sorrow  to  my  wonder  of  you,  Ami," 
said  Astree,  with  pathos. 

"  Oh,  you  are  my  pleasure  and  my  pain,  —  my  pain, 
because  you  are  my  joy.  It  is  nothing  that  you  do  which 
pains  me,  but  you  are  so  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  others." 

"  Would  you  not  have  it  so,  if  only  I  am  yours  and 
yours  alone?  " 

"  I  could  dash  out  the  life  of  a  priest  who  dared  to 
steal  a  glance  from  that  eye  !  Astre"e,  did  you  know  that 
Vian  is  a  monk,  —  a  Benedictine,  once  at  Glastonbury 
Abbey,  —  and  that  he  is  now  in  politics  with  Wolsey?  " 


54s  J/aVA'  AND  KNIGHT. 

\  o ;  never  had  I  heard  his  name,  until  you  blessed 
it  with  your  friendship.     I  fear  a  monk." 

That  was  exactly  what  Ami's  jealousy  was  willing  for 
her  to  say,  even  to  the  great  wronging  of  Vian.  Ami's 
demon  had  come  again.  He  himself  was  startled  by  its 
power.  He  thought  now  he  should  be  able  to  shut  the 
passion  up  in  her  acknowledged  fear  of  monks.  Vet 
that,  he  knew,  was  not  enough.  Somehow  he  must  do 
Vian  justice ;  and  he  said,  — 

-tre"e,  have  I  done  wrong?  No  angel  of  heaven 
should  have  a  fear  of  Vian ;  but  I  know  he  thinks  ad- 
miringly of  you.  He  is  my  friend ;  and  — "  Half 
ashamed  of  the  discovery  he  had  made  of  himself  to  one 
so  innocent  and  so  wise,  he  added :  "  I  am  not  sad  be- 
cause of  Vian  or  of  you.  Treat  him  with  all  admiring 
kindliness.  I  am  thinking  of  something  else.  I  hate 
the  farce  behind  which  Charles  V.  is  connected,  in  which 
my  king  is  aimlessly  playing  his  part." 

So  easily  does  the  heart  oftentimes  flee  into  the  head 
with  its  woes,  and  rename  them  there. 

the  yth  of  June  came,  Vian  and  Ami  were  once 
more  called  into  the  service.  Francis  I.  was  more  cer- 
tain that  the  plans  of  Bonnivet  would  not  miscarry,  if 
Ami  were  in  the  place  which  his  very  abilities  had  cre- 
ated for  him  ;  and  Wolsey  was  never  quite  easy  without 
Vian  at  his  elbow. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

LOVE   AND    LEARNING. 

"  Qui  pleure  larmes  par  amour 
N'en  sent  mal  ni  douleur." 

ASTR£E'S  eyes  were  full  of  love  as  she  girded  her 
knightly  Ami,  on  the  morning  of  the  Qth ;  and 
never  did  a  kiss  possess  for  him  such  lasting  preciousness 
as  did  that  which  still  seemed  to  live  upon  his  lips,  when 
the  knight  found  himself  riding  with  the  French  King  to 
meet,  in  the  presence  of  that  mighty  company,  the  King 
of  England. 

The  gay  colors  of  the  handsome  tent  sparkled  in  the 
dawn.  Palisades  surrounded  it ;  and  the  tennis-court 
near  by  was  exactly  midway  between  the  two  camps. 
Three  hundred  English  archers  guarded  the  Sovereign  of 
France  ;  four  hundred  Frenchmen  of  like  position  pro- 
tected the  English  King. 

Ami  had  said  to  Vian,  "  Your  king  has  crossed  the 
Channel  to  meet  his  brother,  Francis  I. ;  the  Sovereign  of 
France  will  be  the  first  to  cross  the  frontier  to  greet 
Henry  VIII.  of  England." 

"This  is  well,"  answered  Wolsey's  trusted  lieutenant. 

Soon  after,  the  shot  was  fired  from  the  castle  of 
Guisnes.  The  castle  at  Ardres  gave  answer.  Overlook- 
ing the  plain,  mounted  on  a  charger  heavily  laden  with 


35O  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

mosaic  of  finest  gold,  Henry  VIII.,  stout  and  yet  well 
proportioned,  sat  like  the  sovereign  he  was,  his  ruddy 
face  aglow  with  interest,  while  the  soft  air  played  upon 
his  silver  damask  apparel,  which  shone  with  ribs  of  cloth 
of  gold ;  and  his  commanding  eye  beheld  afar,  at  a 
proper  distance,  the  French  King.  Taller  and  more 
graceful  than  the  English  Sovereign,  Francis  I.,  his  finely 
shaped  form  covered  with  gold  and  jewels  which  lay 
upon  the  cassock  of  gold  frieze,  appeared  a  most  fasci- 
nating figure,  as  he  lifted  his  arm,  which  was  weighted 
with  diamonds,  rubies,  and  clinquant  pearls  and  emer- 
alds, to  place  more  safely  upon  his  head  a  velvet  bonnet, 
which  was  also  studded  with  gems.  The  eye  of  France 
had  caught  the  eye  of  England. 

Ami  and  Vian  beheld  it  all  with  deep  excitement.  In 
a  brief  time,  the  provost- marshal  and  his  archers  had 
cleared  the  way.  The  marshals  of  the  army  followed ; 
and  their  luxuriantly  caparisoned  horses  made  a  slow- 
moving  line  of  yellow  flame.  Princes  and  the  King  of 
Navarre,  who  now  moved  rapidly,  could  see  before  them 
the  English  monarch  clad  beneath  the  damask,  which 
was  thrown  back,  in  velvet  of  the  deepest  crimson  and 
satin  of  purest  white,  each  garment  fastened  or  adorned 
with  jewels ;  his  plume  was  made  more  attractive  than 
that  upon  the  bonnet  of  the  French  King,  because  of  the 
star  of  brilliants  which  held  it  fast. 

Astree  remarked,  as  the  kings  came  near  each  other, 
that  the  eyes  of  the  English  King  were  very  bright  and 
piercing. 

"  And  very  illusive,"  said  Ami,  who  desired  to  foster 
no  admiration  in  her  soul  for  things  English. 

The  monarchs  were  approaching.  The  scarf  of  gold 
and  purple  which  Francis  I.  wore  over  his  almost  radiant 
vest  seemed  to  caress  the  long,  wavy  hair,  which  was 
partially  held  by  a  damask  coif  that  was  rough  with  gems. 
His  black  mustache  contrasted  with  the  golden  hair  be- 


LOVE  AND  LEARNING.  351 

neath  Henry's  stout  chin ;  and  now  Vian  remarked  upon 
the  languishing  eyes  of  the  French  King. 

"  But  the  eyes  of  your  sovereign  are  powerful,"  ven- 
tured Astree,  who  said  it  as  though  not  enough  attention 
had  been  paid  by  Ami  to  the  earlier  remark  as  to  Henry's 
eyes. 

What !  should  she  and  Vian  be  found  in  agreement 
even  upon  this  topic? 

Ami  looked  confused.  The  confusion  of  the  knight 
was  shot  through  with  something  fiery  enough  to  re- 
mind Astre"e  of  the  naked  sword  which  just  now  she 
had  seen  in  the  hand  of  the  old  Marquis  of  Dorset,  who 
rode  before  the  King  of  England. 

Ami  at  length  said,  "  The  king's  face  is  heavy." 

"  With  thoughtfulness,"  added  Vian,  who  remembered 
the  opinion  which  Erasmus  held  of  Henry  VIII. 

"  I  shall  complete  my  own  sentences,  if  it  please  you," 
retorted  Ami,  who  at  once  touched  Astree's  wrist  with  a 
distinct  and  commanding  forcefulness  she  had  never  no- 
ticed when  she  had  felt  the  stroke  of  his  hands  of  love. 

"  This  is  not  a  moment  for  a  fitting  answer  to  your 
remark.  If  you  are  a  knight,  you  may  understand  my 
saying,"  said  the  cool  monk,  remembering  how  the 
French  emotion  had  often  unhorsed  the  destiny  of  em- 
pires in  the  presence  of  English  common-sense. 

It  was  a  perplexing  moment  to  both,  and  Astre"e's  ruby 
lips  opened  as  does  a  flower  to  emit  fragrance. 

Just  then  a  horse  —  one  which  had  been  gayly  covered 
for  the  use  of  the  attendant  of  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury, 
a  horse  which  had  proved  to  be  vicious  and  had  broken 
loose,  frightened  by  the  noise  made  by  the  hautboys, 
trumpets,  and.  drums  of  the  Swiss  guards  who  followed 
the  Grand  Master,  covered  with  foam  and  cloth  of  gold, 
dashed  across  the  border  line,  and  came  plunging  along 
through  dust  and  air,  swiftly  rushing  toward  the  three 
persons  whose  words  we  have  just  heard. 


J/<>.VA" 

Altogether  unnerved  by  the  hateful  passion  which  had 
again  flamed  within  his  bosom,  Ami  was  devising  with 
fatal  rapidity  a  plan  for  AstreVs  safety  which  would  have 
placed  her  in  the  path  of  the  furious  steed.  At  that 
moment  Vian's  eye  was  running  along  the  line  of  splen- 
dor made  up  of  Sir  Henry  duildfurd.  the  henchmen, 
the  Lord  Cardinal  Buckingham,  and  the  rot.  At  the 
next  instant,  he  saw  Astrde  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who 
had  for  the  moment  lost  the  power  of  wise  reasoning. 
The  woman  was  imperilled  by  a  terrible  death. 

Summoning  all  his  energies  into  two  strong  arms,  and 
swift  as  thought,  Vian  seized  the  frightened  creature, 
who  was  blindly  trusting  to  the  arms  of  Ami,  and  tore 
her  from  her  lover  and  from  danger.  In  a  breath  the 
horse  was  away ;  the  knight,  who  himself  had  escaped 
death  only  by  good  fortune,  yet  lay  in  the  dust-covered 
path  of  the  beast ;  and  Astr£e,  lovely  as  a  silent  dream, 
was  still  in  a  faint,  held  within  the  gentle  but  strong  arms 
of  the  monk. 

••  \  ii  rfn  !  (ried  Ami,  as  he  staggeringly  approached 
with  his  dagger  quivering  before  him.  "  A  monk  !  a 
false  monk  you  are  !  " 

••  Lying  knight  and  wretch  !  Are  you  thankless  to  me 
for  saving  the  life  of  this  fair  creature —  " 

•  l'h is  creature  you  have  befouled  !  Nay,  nothing 
could  befoul  her  white  soul.  But  I  challenge  you  !  " 
growled  the  angry  courtier,  as  he  caught  Astree  from  the 
grasp  of  her  protector. 

"I  am  a  monk  !  "  —  Vian  really  wished  he  had  never 
tried  to  be  anything  else,  —  "  I  am  a  monk  and  a  gentle- 
man, a  Pythagorean  also,  a  servant  of  my  Lord  Cardinal 
and  the  king,  and  I  must  forbear  to  speak  to  you  now.  I 
shall  henceforth  refuse  to  act  with  you  in  this  business 
of  our  sovereigns.  Farewell,  excellent  lady  !  " 

Yian  mounted  his  horse,  rode  away,  and  was  soon  ex- 
civilities  with  Bourbon,  the  Constable  of  France, 


LOVE  AND  LEARNING.  353 

in  the  valley  of  Ardres.  As  he  looked  upon  the  sword  of 
State  borne  by  Bourbon,  and  into  the  face  of  the  Grand 
Ecuyer,  Vian's  mind  often  wandered  to  Ami.  He  never 
had  hated  a  monk  in  Glastonbury  as  he  hated  that  pas- 
sionate jealousy  which  he  now  saw  was  almost  a  madness. 
What  would  become  of  Astree  ?  Would  she  ever  know 
what  had  happened? 

While  he  had  been  rescuing  the  beautiful  woman  from 
what  otherwise  would  have  been  certain  death,  the  mon- 
archs  had,  after  a  brief  pause  and  a  gorgeous  display, 
rushed  into  each  other's  arms,  amid  the  acclamations 
of  the  throngs,  who  knew  and  cared  nothing  for  Ami's 
agony.  Three  times  did  the  kings  embrace.  Arm-in- 
arm they  had  walked  toward  the  pavilion. 

Vian  could  hardly  understand  how  he  had  escaped 
noticing  what  on  all  sides  was  held  to  be  a  scene  un- 
surpassed. But  he  remembered  that  there  had  been  a 
mighty  rush  of  interior  currents  as  the  three  —  Ami, 
Astree,  and  himself —  stood  alone  on  that  chosen  spot, 
meaning  to  behold  a  spectacle,  and  instead  finding  one 
of  life's  most  significant  milestones. 

"  Only  my  Lord  Cardinal  and  Admiral  Bonnivet  en- 
tered the  pavilion  with  their  masters,"  said  one  of  the 
constables  to  Vian,  who  with  drawn  sword  in  company 
with  another  was  keeping  ward  at  the  salute. 

"  Bans  amis  /  "  "  French  and  English  !  "  shouted  the 
officers  of  both  armies,  who  now  had  broken  ranks,  and 
lost  in  each  other's  dominions,  with  pipes  and  clarions 
and  waving  pennons  were  attempting  to  create  again 
to  sight  and  hearing  a  mighty  expression  of  that  some- 
what recently  born  affection  which  France  and  Eng- 
land now  enjoyed.  Two  persons,  who  had  been  waiting 
through  laborious  weeks  for  this  hour,  in  order  that  they 
might  then  fitly  utter  the  deeper  feelings  of  friendship 
along  with  the  more  superficial  emotions  connected  with 
these  pageants,  did  not  care  even  to  see  each  other 

VOL.  I.  —  23 


354  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

now.  These  were  the  knight  and  the  monk,  —  Ami  and 
Vian. 

On  Monday,  the  i  ith,  Vian  and  Ami,  without  an  utter- 
ance one  to  the  other,  saw  the  tournament  which  on 
Friday  and  Saturday  the  former  had  prepared,  enter  upon 
its  glorious  career.  There  had  been  some  difficulty  as 
to  which  shield  should  hang  above  the  other;  but  it 
was  settled,  not  by  the  French  Constable  and  Dorset, 
who  were  chosen,  but  by  bluff  Harry  himself,  that  they 
should  be  hung  equally  high,  —  the  French  King's  on  the 
right  and  his  own  on  the  left.  When  Ami  presented  the 
pennon  of  Francis  as  a  raspberry,  Vian  suspended  upon 
the  hawthorn- tree,  which  was  chosen  as  Henry's,  the 
tree  of  nobility,  the  shield  of  the  King  of  England.  Once 
their  eyes  met ;  and  Ami's  eyes  were  directed,  by  a  pow- 
erful glance  from  the  monk,  to  the  palace  of  Henry  VIII., 
in  front  of  which  Ami  read  the  words :  "He  whom  I 
favor,  wins." 

Francis  I.  had  dined  on  Sunday  with  the  English 
Queen  at  Guisnes,  as  had  Henry  VIII.  with  Queen 
Claude  at  Ardres.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation  each 
monarch,  seeking  to  avoid  unpleasant  themes,  such  as 
Charles  V.  and  the  Reformers,  had  found  himself  chat- 
ting about  so  inconsiderable  a  person  as  the  monk  Vian, 
and  his  valor  "of  the  day  preceding  in  saving  Astree. 
Astree's  life,  it  was  understood  at  both  courts,  Vian  had 
preserved. 

••  And  he  is  a  scholar  of  wondrous  gifts,"  said  Kath- 
erine  of  Arragon. 

"  I  trust  he  does  not  consort  with  such  scholars  as  those 
who  infest  France  at  this  hour,"  remarked  the  king,  who 
never  failed  to  remember  that  Henry's  queen  was  the 
aunt  of  Charles  V.,  and  therefore  could  have  no  love  for 
what  might  lead  to  heresy. 

"  He  has  been  befriended  by  Erasmus  himself;  and 
the  wonder  grows  when  we  behold  his  learned  pages  on 


LOVE  AND  LEARNING.  355 

matters  ecclesiastical.  I  doubt  not  he  would  have  been 
Abbot  of  Glastonbury  had  he  not  come  to  serve  our  Lord 
Cardinal  Wolsey,"  pursued  the  queen. 

"  Is  it  he  ?  I  think  now  it  is  he  of  whom  Erasmus 
himself  has  written  to  us."  And  Francis  I.  remembered 
then  that  a  prudent  silence  might  be  most  valuable,  for 
he  had  already  considered  the  plan  of  securing  young 
scholars  which  Erasmus  himself  had  suggested ;  and  this 
involved  a  hint  of  Vian's  becoming  at  some  time  profes- 
sor in  the  College  Royal. 

Three  years  before,  Bude"  had  offered  Erasmus  a  place, 
in  the  name  of  the  king ;  and  the  elder  scholar  had  bade 
Bude  look  out  for  Vian.  This  the  Sorbonne  and,  above 
all,  Duprat  could  not  for  a  moment  approve. 

Later  oh  in  that  Sunday  afternoon,  at  Guisnes,  Vian 
had  been  received  by  the  Sovereign  of  France ;  the 
French  monarch  found,  before  an  hour  had  elapsed,  that 
his  prejudices  against  Englishmen  had  passed  away  in  the 
presence  of  the  Benedictine. 

"  I  could  love  every  Englishman,  if  they  were  all  so 
refined  as  he,"  said  the  French  King. 

With  delicate  reserve  did  the  monk  speak  of  the  king's 
friend,  Ami,  —  his  acquirements,  his  brilliant  abilities,  his 
knightly  bearing,  his  theories  of  life,  his  loyalty  to  his 
sovereign.  In  vain  did  even  Francis  I.  seek  to  extort 
from  Vian  a  syllable  which  reflected  upon  Ami's  temper 
or  his  love. 

"  His  devotion  to  the  beautiful  lady  is  more  ardent 
than  the  love  of  kings,"  remarked  Wolsey's  lieutenant. 

Francis  I.  smiled  at  this  somewhat  audacious  sally,  and 
resumed  the  conversation,  which  included  such  topics  as 
the  English  monasteries,  Thomas  More,  Erasmus,  and 
"  the  new  learning."  The  evening  at  length  came,  and 
the  King  of  France  took  his  leave  of  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land. He  did  not  leave,  however,  until  he  had  promised 
himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Vian  again. 


356  AfO.YA'  A\D   KX1GHT. 

"  A  most  engaging  monk  is  Vian,"  he  said  to  Queen 
Katherine. 

Over  at  Ardres,  Henry  VIII.  had  been  seated  for  long 
hours  with  the  Queen  Claude,  and  the  most  admiring  of 
Ami's  friends  at  court,  —  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon. 
Henry  had  often  heard  of  her  accomplishments,  and  that 
Francis  I.  called  her  "  Marguerite  of  Marguerites;  "  and 
soon  after  his  arrival,  he  wondered  not  that  Marot  en- 
joyed reading  poems  to  her,  or  that  the  king  loved  His 
sister  as  tenderly  as  his  phrase  implied. 

"  Your  royal  brother  has  a  most  chivalrous  and  learned 
friend  in  the  knight  Ami,"  said  Henry,  who  had  heard 
of  Ami  through  both  Vian  and  \Volsey,  when  they  had 
talked  over  the  preparations. 

"  And  the  knight  tells  us,"  replied  the  duchesse,  "  that 
your  court  is  adorned  by  at  least  one  of  the  most  able  of 
young  monks, — the  Benedictine  friar,  Vi;m." 

It  never  had  struck  the  King  before  how  little  of  the 
friar  was  in  Vian. 

Everything  at  the  court  of  Queen  Claude  that  day  was 
magnificent.  Why  should  not  Henry  himself  talk  now  in 
a  stream  of  exaggerated  luxuriance?  His  court  must  at 
least  equal  that  of  his  cousin  in  scholarship ;  for  he  knew 
himself  to  be  more  learned  than  the  Sovereign  of  France. 
He  had  beheld  on  that  afternoon  the  queen  clad  in  gold 
frieze,  Mme.  de  Vendome  clothed  in  satin  and  gems,  the 
incomparable  Duchesse  d'Alencon  arrayed  in  velvet  and 
rubies.  He  himself  sat  easily,  with  his  wide  collar  heavy 
with  the  art  of  the  lapidary  and  goldsmith.  He  had 
leisurely  admired  the  exhibit  of  female  loveliness  which 
flitted  through  the  extemporized  house.  Why  should  he 
not  speak  in  magnificent  eulogy  of  the  brightest  young 
monk  in  England  ? 

"  The  most  learned  among  the  most  loving,  the  most 
loving  among  the  most  learned,"  said  Henry,  drawing  a 
long  breath  into  his  burly  body.  "  He  is  already  the 


LOVE  AND  LEARNING.  357 

companion  of  Erasmus  and  the  friend  of  Thomas  More. 
He  has  the  greatest  variety  of  powers.  Glastonbury 
Abbey  had  no  peer  for  him.  Hampton  Court  and  White- 
hall have  never  seen  his  equal  in  expedients  of  policy 
or  knowledge.  He  was  solitary  among  monks  whose 
whole  life  was  given  to  books.  He  knows  manuscripts ; 
and  he  writes  odes  which  are  more  beautiful  than  those  of 
the  ancients." 

"  Is  he  a  poet  such  as  Master  Clement  Marot?"  in- 
quired the  pretty  Marguerite,  who,  as  Duchesse  d'Alen- 
con,  had  not  forgotten  the  love-songs  which  Marot  had 
taught  her. 

"  A  poet  in  truth  !  Would  that  you  might  hear  his 
melodious  voice  in  his  own  lines  !  A  musician  as  well  is 
this  Vian.  'T  is  he  who  made  the  choir  at  Glastonbury 
one  sacred  harmony  with  his  own  singing.  He  has  mas- 
tered musical  instruments.  He  brought  us  the  harp 
at  Greenwich,  the  lute,  and  the  cithern ;  and  sweet, 
indeed,  are  the  songs  which  he  sings  while  he  plays  upon 
these." 

The  musical  soul  of  Marguerite  was  all  attention  ;  and 
she  promised  herself,  on  the  instant,  that  she  would  break 
down  Ami's  influence  with  Francis  the  king,  and  that  in 
spite  of  the  jealous  hate  which  the  knight  bore  to  the 
monk,  and  which  he  had  confessed  to  the  duchesse, 
Vian  of  Glastonbury  should  recite  his  verses  and  sing  his 
songs  at  Ardres. 

As  Henry  VIII.  rode  away  at  five  o'clock,  displaying 
his  skill  as  a  horseman  in  curvetings  and  other  exhibitions 
of  grace  and  mastery,  Ami  Perrin,  who  had  overheard  all 
this  praise  of  Vian,  was  burning  with  jealous  hate,  and 
resolving  that  if  his  love  or  power  could  prevent  it,  the 
monk  should  never  come  to  Ardres. 

"  Astree,  you  said  once,  '  I  fear  a  monk,'  "  said  Ami 
inquiringly,  when  he  found  her  alone. 

"And  I   should  not  be  alive  to  tell   you  again,  if  it 


358  MO\AT  A. YD  KNIGHT. 

had  not  been  for  a  monk,"  answered  she,  as  she  sought 
in  vain  to  kiss  the  lips  which  then  burned  with  curses. 

There  is  no  such  apparently  evil  world  as  is  this,  to  an 
unreasonably  jealous  heart.  The  assertion  of  all  others 
that  it  might  be  foolish  made  Ami  more  earnest  that  he 
should  make  his  hate  more  reasonable  to  himself.  Every 
one  who  knew  the  monk  Vian  knew  how  foolish  wa> 
Ami's  jealousy. 

"  He  is  a  Pythagorean,"  said  the  Duchesse  d'Alen- 
con,  who,  as  Marguerite  de  Valois,  with  Nouvisset  had 
dabbled  a  little  in  Greek  philosophy,  "  and  it  is  impossi- 
ble that  he  really  loves  any  woman.  Women  to  Pythag- 
oreans are  only  evil  men,  who  have  been  born  again  on 
a  lower  plane.  Besides,  he  is  a  monk.  He  is  under  a 
vow." 

"  That  fact  would  not  make  me  less  certain  of  his  in- 
fernal plot  to  hold  Astree  in  his  arms,"  said  Ami,  as  sav- 
agely as  he  dare  say  anything  to  the  king's  sister.  And 
then,  as  he  thought  of  it,  —  the  apparent  longing  with 
which  Vian  at  first  looked  into  her  eyes,  the  swift  and 
measured  praise  which  came  from  his  lips  at  the  moment 
when  he  met  her,  the  crafty  words  which  Vian  spoke 
about  the  king's  eyes  which  put  them  into  agreement, 
above  all,  the  seizing  and  tearing  her  out  of  his  own 
arms,  —  he  could  feel  his  grasp  loosening  yet,  as  again 
he  could  also  see  the  rushing  horse,  —  oh,  it  was  all  too 
much  ! 

"  The  detestable  monk  really  loves  her,  and  I  will  have 
revenge  upon  him,"  said  Ami,  as  he  strode  away. 

Everything  fanned  the  flame.  Not  an  hour  passed  that 
some  one  did  not  congratulate  the  lover  that  Astree  had 
been  saved  from  death. 

"And  who  and  what  is  the  monk  Vian?"  inquired 
these  bearers  of  congratulatory  tidings,  with  unconscious 
pertinacity. 

Kvery   one  praised  the  courageous  alertness   of  the 


LOVE  AND  LEARNING.  359 

monk ;  and  some  even  criticised  Ami  by  asking,  "  Where 
was  the  knight  at  the  time  ?  " 

"This  implied  censure  I  will  not  endure,"  said  he  to 
Astree.  "  I  was  trying  to  save  you." 

Tears  came  into  Ami's  eyes,  but  they  were  soon  gone 
into  the  flame  on  his  cheek.  In  all  this  difficulty  with 
Vian  and  his  own  soul,  Ami  had  not  the  smallest  thought 
of  objecting  to  anything  which  Astree — his  "star,"  as 
he  kept  calling  her  through  these  hours  of  gloom  —  had 
felt  or  said  or  done.  True,  after  consciousness  had  come, 
she  did  inquire  gratefully  about  Vian,  and  even  asked  if 
he  was  harmed ;  but  Ami  was  not .  made  so  ignoble  by 
his  jealousy  as  to  censure  her. 

She  had  made  him  forget  everything  but  her  loveliness 
and  nobility,  when  she  said  :  "  I  know  you  did  all  that  a 
lover  and  a  knight  could  do.  Vian  the  monk  happened 
to  be  on  the  spot  where  was  safety ;  but  he  did  not  know 
it  until  afterward.  Your  place  was  the  place  of  danger ; 
no  one  of  us  knew  it  until  afterward.  If  you  had  been 
in  the  place  of  the  monk,  you  would  have  saved  me." 

It  seemed  so  infinitely  true  to  Astree's  soul.  He 
never  discovered  that  the  fires  of  his  passion  lit  up  the 
trifling  possibility  of  the  contrary  supposition  being  true 
into  a  very  Sinai  of  truth  itself.  The  light,  however,  per- 
mitted the  casting  of  some  awful  shadows. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

AN    UNHORSED    KM<  ,H  I  . 

Oh,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  mend  ! 
Bin 

EVERYTHING  appeared  to  go  against  Ami  for  the 
next  forty-eight  hours.  Even  the  grounds  chosen 
for  the  lists,  which  were  three  hundred  yards  long  and 
more  than  one  hundred  yards  in  width,  seemed  a  poor 
selection.  The  tajx->try  hangings  for  the  enclosing  gal- 
leries were  unaccountably  dull. 

••  Those  chambers,  —  they  were  carefully  glazed  for  the 
queens,  —  how  ill-placed  they  are  !  "  said  he  to  Astre"e. 
"  The  foss  is  too  shallow  to  keep  the  crowd  back." 
ii,  nothing  goes  well  to  a  sick  heart  ! 

"  Blunderers,  all  of  them  !  "  And  he  pointed  toward 
the  twelve  English  and  twelve  French  archers  guarding 
the  entrances.  He  was  convinced  that  even  the  cloth  of 
gold  which  served  for  the  trunk  and  old  leaves,  and 
the  green  silk  which  had  been  made  into  the  living  foli- 
age, and  even  the  silver  and  Venetian  gold  which  fancy 
was  expected  to  transform  into  flowers  and  fruits  upon 
the  tree  of  Francis  I.,  under  whose  immense  branches  the 
heralds  stood  on  a  huge  damask  mound,  constituted  only 
a  vulgar  and  uncomely  pretence.  Indeed,  everything 
save  Astr^e  was  a  lie  to  Ami. 


AN  UNHORSED  KNIGHT.  361 

Men  are  driven  to  truth  oftentimes  by  experience  with 
being  untrue  to  themselves. 

"  The  king  appears  in  bad  condition,"  complained  he. 

It  was  true.  The  monarchs,  each  supported  by  eigh- 
teen aids,  had  held  the  lists  against  all  comers ;  but  the 
swords  which  Henry  easily  wielded  were  too  heavy  for 
the  arms  of  Francis.  Ami  was  in  a  rage  when  his  own 
sovereign  essayed  in  vain  to  sweep  a  huge  blade  about 
his  royal  head. 

"  Astree,"  said  he,  "  my  king  has  been  a  baby,  with  his 
mother  and  Duprat  as  his  guardians.  Look  you  !  I  love 
him.  They  are  spurring  their  chargers  now.  On  my  soul, 
how  well  he  rides  !  Bayard  himself  made  him  a  knight. 
Ah  !  the  lance  of  Henry  couches  low.  See,  Astree  ! 
The  shock  from  Henry  will  be  too  great ;  powerful  was 
that  thrust !  Oh,  I  shall  not  permit  my  sovereign's  saddle 
to  be  emptied  like  that,  —  not  I,  Astree  —  " 

Ami  leaped  from  her.  Soon  the  knight  held  a  lance. 
Before  many  minutes  had  gone,  Ami  had  triumphed. 
First,  and  indeed  solitary  among  the  French,  did  he  un- 
horse the  splendid  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Charles  Brandon,  who 
had  divided  honors  with  Henry  VIII.  at  the  tournament. 

Astree  was  aglow  with  proud  excitement.  Every  lady 
in  jewels,  every  emblazoned  man,  did  her  honor.  Ami's 
chivalry  was  the  one  theme.  But,  alas  !  the  mind  of  a 
jealous  man  is  not  to  be  bewildered  even  by  his  successes. 
With  fatal  agony  it  is  predetermined  to  one  object  of 
contemplation. 

"  I  wish,"  said'  the  knight,  "  it  had  been  the  despicable 
monk.  I  had  even  run  him  through,  as  he  lay  there  in 
the  dust." 

Astree  could  not  restrain  herself.  For  Ami's  sake 
she  would  speak.  "  Is  that  of  the  new  knighthood  ? 
Ami,  he  who  keeps  my  love  must  be  a  true  knight." 

Francis  L,  beloved  of  Ami,  friend  and  king,  came  close 
to  him  who  at  that  moment  was  the  pride  of  France. 


362  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

*  Would  that  Chevalier  Bayard  had  seen  it !  "  The 
king's  eyes  were  congratulations.  "  Ah !  would  that 
Nouvisset,  Francesco,  anil  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  were 
here  !  But  Astr£e  "  —  and  the  languishing  eyes  of  the 
monarch  became  intense  with  interest  —  "  Astr£e  is  here. 
I  would  have  you  dine  with  my  sister,  Duchesse  d'Alen- 
con,  and  my  queen.  Astree,  you  will  come  with  your 
knight !  Farewell !  " 

"  Sire,"  asked  Ami,  "  will  any  from  the  camp  of  Henry 
of  England  be  with  us?  " 

"  Ami,  beloved  and  faithful,"  replied  his  Majesty,  with 
hesitation,  "only  at  our  desire  or  at  our  command. 
Farewell !  " 

What  could  this  mean?  "  Desire  "  and  "  Command," 
—  t\vu  realms  overruled  by  two  sceptres.  Under  which 
was  Vian?  Was  he  under  either?  Would  Vian  grace 
or  disgrace  that  occasion?  Would  he  be  present?  All 
these  questions  occupied  Ami's  mind,  to  the  exclusion 
even  of  Astree's  grateful  enjoyment  at  such  an  hour. 

Ami  had  the  right  to  make  such  queries  his  own. 
Louise  of  Savoy,  as  we  know,  was  sure  that  Vian  —  a 
Benedictine  monk  —  would  more  strongly  attach  Ami  to 
the  Holy  Church. 

Besides  this,  the  King  of  France  now  believed  that  in 
meeting  Vian  he  had  met  the  most  fascinating  man  in 
England.  His  complete  self-mastery,  his  far-sighted  con- 
ceptions of  human  progress,  his  admirable  temper,  his 
various  accomplishments,  his  exquisite  taste  —  all  of 
them  finding  easy  expression  upon  his  lips  or  in  graceful 
action  —  had  charmed  and  captivated  the  French  King. 

"Is  it  he?  It  is  he,"  said  the  king  to  Louise  of 
Savoy.  "  It  is  Vian,  of  whom  Erasmus  told  us." 

"  He  surpasses  Marot  in  rhymes,  and  the  lute-players 
of  Florence  in  music,"  said  the  graceful  Marguerite. 

"  And  a  monk,  —  a  Benedictine  ?  "  carefully  asked  the 
shrewd  Louise  of  Savoy. 


AN  UNHORSED  KNIGHT.  363 

"  Yes ;  without  a  peril  in  his  soul  for  a  woman  or  a 
man.  Indeed,  he  is  a  Pythagorean,"  said  the  enthusias- 
tic Duchesse  d'Alencon. 

Louise  of  Savoy  knew  nothing  of  Pythagoras  ;  but  she 
had  abounding  confidence  in  Marguerite  and  in  her  use 
of  this  new  name.  Somehow  she  obtained  the  impression 
that  no  court- rumor  of  an  unpleasant  nature  would  be 
possible  on  Vian's  account,  because  he  was  a  Pythago- 
rean ;  that  was  sufficient. 

"Vian  is  a  scholar,"  said  Francis  I.  "My  court  must 
concern  itself  with  ideas,  as  Ami  has  urged.  Vian  —  if 
only  my  cousin  Henry  will  yield  him  to  France  —  may 
supplant  the  heretics  who  endanger  everything  by  their 
advance,  and  the  worn-out  reactionaries  who  imperil 
everything  by  their  retreat.  The  true  scholar  must  be 
a  soldier  of  another  sort  than  these." 

The  king  had  a  dim  vision  of  what  France  needed. 
He  entertained  the  notion  that  Vian  might  do  for  France 
what  he  thought  More,  Linacre,  Grocyn,  and  perhaps 
Colet  were  doing  for  England.  The  lines  of  power  were 
about  to  pass  out  of  Ami's  hands. 

An  hour  had  passed,  and  the  Duchesse  d'Alengon 
had  rehearsed  it  all  —  the  plans,  the  hopes,  the  accom- 
plished facts  —  to  Astree.  Never  did  Ami  feel  so  surely 
that  Astree,  his  love,  did  not  desire  to  see  the  young 
monk  again,  as  when  she  brought  the  whole  story  to 
him. 

It  had  been  a  busy  morning  with  both  Ami  and  Vian. 
Nothing,  however,  had  made  it  easy  or  possible  for  either 
to  utter  a  word  to  the  other.  Francis  I.  had  long  ago, 
in  the  progress  of  these  ceremonies,  broken  down  all 
suspicion,  and  made  the  intimacy  of  the  two  monarchs 
appear  to  be  a  stable  fact  for  future  policies,  by  going 
with  only  four  companions  to  the  very  apartments  of 
Henry  VIII.,  and  having  entered  the  chamber  of  the 
English  King  alone,  by  saying  in  great  glee,  "  Here,  you 


364  ^WA"  AND  KNIGHT. 

see,  I  am  your  prisoner."  A  hearty  friendship  had 
sprung  up  between  the  two  camps.  And  now  the  unre- 
strained hospitalities  of  this  unique  occasion  were  to  be 
fitly  concluded.  The  monk  Vian  had  charge  of  the 
chapel ;  the  knight  Ami  promised  Bonnivet  to  arrange 
the  banquet 

"  But,"  said  Ami,  "  on  one  condition." 

"  On  any  condition,  faithful  knight !  "  replied  the 
admiral. 

"  I  shall  not  dine  with  Wolsey's  monkish  servant,  — 
that  brazen  and  hateful  Vian." 

"  The  banquet  you  may  prepare.  I  will  beg  the  King 
of  France  that  any  dinner  which  would  bring  Vian 
hither  be  dismissed  from  his  thoughts." 

Vian  had  made  the  chapel  for  the  morning  of  the 
24th  a  shining  witness  to  his  own  industry  and  intelli- 
gence, and  a  fascinating  testimonial  to  the  richness  of 
the  now  concluding  pageant.  Cardinal  Wolsey,  attired 
in  proper  robes,  sang  solemn  Mass.  His  voice  had  the 
ring  of  conscious  triumph,  as  its  echoes  passed  above 
the  altar  and  the  reliquaries,  and  died  away  against  the 
two  canopies  of  cloth  of  gold  hanging  at  the  side.  Leg- 
ates of  England  vied  with  bishops  and  cardinals  of 
France  to  make  the  scene  illustrious  in  ecclesiastical 
personages.  Courtesies,"  so  like  flowers  on  thornless  but 
dead  stalks,  appeared  at  every  juncture.  Even  the  Gos- 
pels the  French  King  refused  to  kiss,  as  the  book  was 
borne  in  the  hands  of  Constable  de  Bourbon,  until  it 
had  first  been  offered  to  the  King  of  England.  The 
queens  enacted  the  same  courtesy,  when  at  the  "  Agnus 
Dei  "  the  "  Pax  "  was  presented.  These  excellent  ladies 
kissed  each  other,  to  settle  the  controversy. 

Pace  preached  in  Latin  on  the  blessings  of  peace,  and 
then  sprang  into  the  sky  a  monstrous  achievement  of 
pyrotechnics.  Throngs  beheld  with  awe  a  huge  salaman- 


AN  UNHORSED  KNIGHT.  365 

der,  spouting  fire  and  traversing  the  sky  toward  Guisnes. 
It  occupied  the  mind  of  the  crowd  at  the  celebration  of 
Mass,  which  occurred  immediately  after  its  appearance. 
It  was  the  last  flash  of  a  huge  dream. 

The  banquet  came.  Kings  and  legates  forgot  to  be 
temperate ;  knights  and  monks  forgot  to  quarrel.  The 
great  fountains  of  wine  gushed  once  more,  sending  their 
red  streams  up  into  the  golden  daytime ;  and  then  the 
splendid  picture  faded.  The  red  cheek  of  Ami  and  the 
determined  eye  of  Vian,  each  reflecting  the  suggestion 
contained  in  the  other,  remained  the  unsuspected  and 
doubtless  unseen  testimonials  that  something  had  oc- 
curred on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  "  which  would 
influence  human  history. 


END   OF   VOL.    I. 


MONK    AND    KNIGHT 

VOLUME  II. 


MONK   AND   KNIGHT. 


CHAPTER   I. 

TWO    LETTERS. 

"  And  whoso  knoweth  God  indeed, 
The  fixed  foundations  of  his  creed 
Know  neither  changing  nor  decay, 
Though  all  creation  pass  away." 

THE  mountain  torrents  near  La  Torre  were  singing 
songs  of  spring ;  but  the  sweet  voice  of  Alke  was 
never  more  sad  than  when  she  called  the  little  herd  of 
goats  and  looked  upon  them  as  one  by  one  on  that  morn- 
ing in  May,  1521,  she  saw  them  bound  over  the  stream- 
let and  come  close  to  her  very  feet.  A  severe  winter 
had  just  yielded  to  oncoming  summer,  and  the  spring- 
time appeared  to  be  only  a  battle-ground  on  which  now 
the  glowing  fires  of  an  advancing  June  burned  away  the 
frigid  chains  of  December,  and  then  the  chains  grew 
more  cold  and  solid,  only  reflecting  the  ineffectual  light 
which  struggled  through  frost  and  damp. 

"  It  is  somewhat  like  the  life  of  humanity,"  said  the 
maiden,  as  she  drew  about  her  shivering  shoulders  a 
coarse  covering.  "The  patches  of  snow  are  like  the 


8  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

drifts  of  ignorance  and  wrong  which  do  not  melt  under 
the  light  of  truth.  Ah  me  !  does  the  glacier  grow  from 
year  to  year?  I  never  have  seen  snow  upon  these  pas- 
tures in  May  until  this  day." 

She  looked  up  into  the  light,  —  irradiated,  almost  trans- 
figured, —  and  mused  again  :  "  There  is  more  light  than 
warmth  here."  She  seemed  to  feel  the  air  with  its 
contesting  energies. 

"  That  is  the  trouble  with  Master  Erasmus.  He  is  full 
of  light,  —  light  which  illuminates  every  crag  of  ice,  light 
which  penetrates  every  cloud  of  gloom,  —  but  he  warms 
not ;  he  will  not  melt  the  ice-bands.  He  is  afraid  of  the 
avalanche.  A  great  man  afraid  of  the  consequences  of 
great  actions,  alas,  how  little  he  is  !  "  and  Alke  took  from 
her  bosom  a  letter,  which  she  read  :  — 

ERASMUS  to  CASPAR  PERRIN: 

As  to  Luther,  of  whom  you  write  so  admiringly,  I  must 
say  to  you  what  I  have  said  to  the  Most  Blessed  Father 
Leo  X.  I  have  no  acquaintance  with  Luther,  nor  have  I  ever 
read  his  books,  except  perhaps  ten  or  twelve  pages,  and  that 
only  by  snatches.  From  what  I  then  saw,  I  judged  him  to 
be  well  qualified  for  expounding  the  Scriptures  in  an  age  like 
this,  which  is  so  excessively  given  to  mere  subtleties  to  the 
neglect  of  really  important  questions.  Accordingly  I  have 
favored  Christ's  glory  in  him.  I  was  among  the  first  to  fore- 
see the  danger  there  was  of  this  matter  ending  in  violence, 
and  no  one  ever  hated  violence  more  than  I  do.  Indeed  I 
even  went  so  far  as  to  threaten  John  Froben  the  printer,  to 
prevent  him  printing  his  books.  I  wrote  frequently  and  in- 
dustriously to  my  friends,  begging  that  they  would  admonish 
this  man  to  observe  Christian  meekness  in  his  writings,  and 
do  nothing  to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  Church.  And  when 
he  himself  wrote  to  me  two  years  ago,  I  lovingly  admonished 
him  what  I  wished  him  to  avoid,  and  I  would  he  had  fol- 
lowed my  advice.  You  have  doubtless  heard  from  Luther 
himself.  Let  me  recite  to  you  what  I  wrote  him  :  "  You  have 
friends  in  England,  and  among  them  men  of  the  greatest  emi- 
nence, who  think  most  highly  of  your  writings.  Even  here 


TWO  LETTERS.  9 

there  are  some  who  favor  you,  and  one  of  these  is  a  man  of 
distinction.  Fortnyself  I  am  keeping  such  powers  as  I  have 
to  help  the  cause  of  the  revival  of  letters.  And  more  I  think 
is  gained  by  politeness  and  moderation  than  by  violence.  It 
was  thus  that  Christ  won  the  world  to  obedience  to  His 
authority.  It  was  thus  that  Paul  abrogated  the  Jewish  law, 
putting  an  allegorical  interpretation  on  its  enactments.  It 
is  more  expedient  to  declaim  against  those  who  abuse  the 
Pope's  authority  than  against  the  Popes  themselves;  and 
the  same  thing  may  be  said  of  kings.  Instead  of  holding  the 
universe  in  contempt,  we  ought  rather  to  endeavor  to  recall 
them  to  more  sober  studies ;  and  regarding  opinions  which 
are  too  generally  received  to  be  rooted  all  at  once  from  peo- 
ple's minds,  it  is  better  to  reason  upon  them  with  close  and 
convincing  arguments  than  to  deal  in  dogmatic  assertions." 
But  I  am  more  interested  in  the  manuscript  of  which  we 
talked  so  long  since.  I  should  like  to  see  the  little  child 
whom  I  never  could  forget.  If  she  reads  some  Greek,  she 
must  have  found  out  much  concerning  the  coins  which  I  left 
with  her.  It  appears  too  much  to  expect  that  those  tiny  fin- 
gers which  grasped  the  coins  should  succeed  in  copying  for 
me  such  a  priceless  manuscript.  I  shall  think  much  of  the 
writer  as  well  as  of  the  copy.  Be  sure  that  after  this  noisy 
quarrel  of  religion  is  passed  by,  we  shall  be  rid  of  being  called 
heretics,  and  nothing  will  be  more  valuable  to  me  or  the 
scholars  than  such  a  gift  as  your  beloved  daughter  has  pro- 
posed for  me. 

Half  in  anger,  she  folded  it  with  graceless  force,  and 
was  about  to  place  it  within  her  bosom  again,  when  she 
paused. 

"  That  is  cold,  cold  light,  if  it  is  light  at  all.  Ah  ! 
it  is  not  so  illumining  as  much  that  Erasmus  did  say,  when 
he  feared  not  the  effects  of  the  fires  which  make  the  light. 
A  letter  like  that  near  my  heart?  No  !  it  will  make  it 
yet  more  cold.  Would  that  I  could  burn  with  a  di- 
vine passion  until  the  world  should  be  inflamed  !  Poor 
daughter  of  a  shepherd  and  peasant,  a  great  life  is  not 
for  me  !  I  can  only  get  manuscripts  from  disguised 
novices." 


IO  .VO.YA'  AA'D   KXIGHT. 

She  was  attracted  by  a  footstep  ;  then  she  saw  her 
father  approaching. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  months,  Caspar  Perrin  was 
able  to  walk  so  far.  Sickness,  which  had  attacked  him 
nearly  a  year  before,  had  wasted  his  strong  frame.  But 
feeling  now  the  inflow  of  strength  from  the  lucent  air,  he 
had  walked  laboriously  on,  until  he  had  made  his  way  to 
the  spot  where  his  daughter  stood  ;  and  breathing  heavily, 
he  stopped,  leaned  forward  for  an  instant  on  his  cane,  as 
he  said  to  the  child  whom  he  adored,  — 

"  My  dear  one,  you  are  not  thinking  about  the  goats, 
yet  I  do  not  blame  you.  That  is  the  letter  of  Erasmus 
in  your  hand.  One  of  the  kids  has  fallen  into  the  stream. 
It  matters  not,  if  things  are  going  well  with  your  mind ;  " 
and  he  commanded,  as  she  suddenly  started  toward  the 
stream,  "  Alke,  stay,  child 

Alke  had  entirely  forgotten  her  task.  Practical  as  she 
was,  the  severe  commandments  of  what  was  and  is  called 
the  impnu  tiral  were  upon  her  soul. 

Is  not  the  ideal,  in  whose  presence  what  we  call  the 
practical  must  often  be  lost,  a  higher,  broader  sort  of  the 
practical  ? 

At  all  events,  this  maiden  had  devoted  one  kid  to  the 
most  practical  problem  of  the  Europe  of  her  day ;  but 
the  loss  of  that  kid,  so  much  like  the  many  losses  she 
had  known,  only  made  vivid  the  thought  of  her  own  life, 
with  which  she  was  struggling  when  Caspar  came  near. 
The  letter  of  Erasmus  had  come  into  her  soul,  like  a 
great  stone  hurled  into  a  placid  pool ;  and  the  splashings 
had  now  gradually  come  to  be  a^  series  of  circles  which 
were  acquiring  such  order,  as  they  broke  one  into  the 
other,  that  out  of  it  all  she  had  fancied  there  might 
come  a  newly  mirrored  sky. 

What  was  practical  for  Alke  ?     Only  the  ideal. 

Everybody  loved  her,  because  she  was  like  an  angel 
in  that  kind  of  saintliness  which  seems  very  distant  to 


TWO  LETTERS.  II 

commonplace  souls ;  everybody  loved  her  quite  as  pro- 
foundly because  she  could  do  with  so  much  more  grace 
and  gratefulness  what  everybody  else  in  that  commu- 
nity had  to  do,  whether  awkwardly  and  drudgingly  or 
otherwise.  Her  sky  was  never  so  far  above  her  earth 
that  it  did  not  communicate  itself  in  starlight,  sunlight, 
dewfall,  and  blue ;  and  yet  sometimes  her  earth  never 
seemed  as  unsacred  as  when  she  looked  away  from  it 
into  the  sky.  Life,  and  not  thought,  solves  this  problem 
for  every  Alke ;  but  she  was  then  trying  to  think  it  out. 

"  No  one,"  said  the  pale  and  weary  father,  whose 
strength  rallied  as  he  spoke  to  her,  —  "  no  one  can  sympa- 
thize with  you  as  I  do.  You  have  in  your  soul  the  whole 
of  this  vast  transformation  which  I  feel  is  coming  over  all 
lands  and  peoples.  Poor  little  girl,  with  an  entire  revo- 
lution in  your  bosom  !  "  Caspar's  utterance  was  choked 
as  they  walked  on  together,  —  father  and  child. 

He  proceeded  :  "  I  have  taught  you,  in  this  straitened 
life  which  you  have  had  to  live,  the  ideas  which  made 
Athens  glorious  and  Rome  imperial.  They  have  come 
into  your  mind  along  with  those  sentiments  which  the 
monks  could  not  kill,  —  the  sentiments  which  made 
the  Holy  City  of  Jerusalem.  Your  life  has  been  placed 
in  a  narrow  vale,  like  a  little  field  of  rich  ground ;  and 
now  these  rapid  streams  flow  down  from  the  ages  upon  it. 
Oh,  my  daughter,  beloved  !  shall  they  entirely  sweep  the 
field  away  in  their  rush  toward  the  sea,  which  even  now 
they  seem  to  have  scented  as  no  longer  afar  off,  toward 
which  they  roll  like  wide  rivers  which  have  been  long 
delayed?  " 

They  were  standing  silently  looking  into  each  other's 
souls,  through  eyes  glistening  with  tears.  The  goats  were 
browsing  among  the  flowers  that  had  risen  up  to  greet 
the  sunshine,  which  lingered  at  the  foot  of  a  vast,  snow- 
covered,  frozen  sea,  whose  gigantic  edge  dripped  in 
tinkling  drops  into  the  mirror-like  basin  which  held  the 


U  .1/<>.VAT  A\D 

mountain  shadows.  Alke  felt  it  all,  —  the  fine  significance 
of  her  father's  sayings,  and  the  infinite  meaning  of  the 
humblest  life. 

Latin  and  Greek,  Cicero  and  Plato,  had  come  to  her 
as  to  no  other  woman  in  the  mountains.  Perhaps  not  a 
half  hundred  men  in  all  Southern  Europe  had  so  filled 
their  souls  at  classic  fountains.  But  she  had  something 
else  which  these  never  gave  her.  She  had  the  intel- 
lectual outlook  belonging  to  Christian  culture.  Her  deep 
religious  spirit  had  never  allowed  her  to  long  for  the 
return  of  Europe  to  the  pagan  times.  Christianity  with- 
out any  crushing  tyranny,  religion  without  decaying  for- 
mularies, Christ  without  interposed  barriers,  had  made 
her  thoroughly  Christian.  Greece  and  Rome  had  given 
to  her  soul  a  vision  of  the  intellectual  possibilities  of 
humanity,  which  lost  none  of  its  brilliant  hopefulness 
when  she  saw  it  all  in  the  presence  of  the  Christ.  Never 
had  she  felt  so  surely  that  the  next  word  for  the  world 
was  reform,  as  when  she  read  the  letter  of  Erasmus,  and 
saw  his  willingness  to  be  content  with  merely  intellectual 
changes  rather  than  have  the  world  suffer  a  revolution,  — 
never  since  the  hour  in  which  her  father  had  told  her  of 
the  report  which  some  of  the  brethren  had  brought  back 
from  Florence  of  Savonarola,  who  had  allowed  nothing 
of  the  splendor  of  the  Renaissance  at  Lorenzo's  palace 
to  bewilder  his  moral  eyesight. 

But  what  could  she  do  ? 

She  had  not  forgotten  her  father's  words  as  she  begged 
him  to  go  homeward  and  rest.  As  he  turned  to  look 
upon  her  before  the  mountain  should  hide  her  from  his 
gaze,  his  eyes  saw  not  for  tears. 

"  Poor  girl !  "  he  said,  with  a  sigh  which  bore  a  hope. 
"But  she  has  spoken  the  truth.  Master  Erasmus  has 
more  interest  in  the  manuscript  of  Virgil  than  in  the 
reform  of  the  Church,  unless  it  can  come  peaceably. 
This  cold  world"  —  and  the  thin  hand  of  Gaspar  grasped 


TWO  LETTERS.  13 

his  walking- stick  more  tightly  as  he  faltered  upon  the 
ice,  —  "  ah,  methinks  this  frozen  world  must  have  more 
light,  but  light  with  heat  in  it ! " 

Again  he  looked  back.  As  Alke  stood  there,  thinking 
of  the  huge  movement  which  had  already  begun  to  make 
the  proudest  crowns  tremble  and  the  oldest  institutions 
rock  uneasily,  she  unconsciously  made  a  suggestive  pic- 
ture. From  the  mighty  glacier  which  ran  backward  amid 
the  mountains  for  countless  leagues,  and  which  at  any 
moment  might  desolate  countless  other  leagues  before  it, 
there  came  a  sharp  report  like  the  crack  of  doom.  She 
looked  upward  to  God  through  the  murky  sky  which 
darkened  the  gray  desolation  of  the  crags;  then  she 
reached  down  and  plucked  a  tender  Lychnis  flower 
which  had  been  watered  at  the  dripping  edge  of  this 
awful  sea  of  ice  and  snow.  It  was  the  picture  of  but  one 
human  'career,  with  a  power  vast  as  that  measureless 
glacier  threatening  to  engulf  it,  while  from  the  cold 
white  breast  its  blooming  life  was  inspired. 

The  Waldensian  had  but  reached  his  cottage  when 
two  of  the  younger  men  of  the  fraternity,  Gerard  Pastre 
and  Louis  Savan,  came  up  to  the  doorway,  at  whose 
approach  Alke  had  with  her  own  hands  prepared,  even 
in  sight  of  the  snow,  a  little  garden-plot. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Caspar,  "  if  my  child  had  the  sunshine 
which  breaks  from  your  faces,  my  brothers,  this  cold  soil 
would  grow  food  and  blossoms  at  once." 

"Do  you  think  either  of  us  looks  as  happy  as  we 
feel?"  inquired  Louis  Savan,  as  he  entered  the  home  to 
which  so  often  in  Caspar's  time  of  sickness  the  coun- 
cillors of  the  fraternity  had  come  with  news  from  the 
Reformers  in  Germany  or  Switzerland. 

"You  have  come  with  thunder-clouds  and  winter  on 
your  faces  so  often,"  said  the  delighted  peasant,  as  he 
drew  near  and  searched  the  faces  with  renewed  satis- 
faction, "  that  I  look  for  the  seeds  in  the  pot  yonder 


14  K  A.\'/>   h'XIGHT. 

to  break,  and  the  trees  outside  to  bloom  at  once  if  you 
looked  upon  them  to-day.  Where  have  you  been  with 
yourself,  Gerard?" 

A-  (iaspar  addressed  him,  the  young  mountaineer,  who 
had  been  in  confidential  relations  with  the  Barb£,  and 
had  been  the  bearer  of  letters  to  and  from  the  Reforming 
party  in  Germany,  revealed  his  sense  of  special  responsi- 
bility in  his  erect  form ;  and  as  his  lips  parted,  his  very 
eye  held  within  it  the  memory  of  a  battle-field  which,  as 
it  appeared,  he  had  just  left  somewhere  behind  him. 

"  Here,"  said  Gerard  Pastre,  "  is  a  letter  to  you  from 
God's  noblest  son,  Martin  Luther." 

The  hands  which  gave  trembled  quite  as  much  as  did 
the  hands  which  received. 

"  And  you  saw  him?"  said  Caspar,  with  the  emotions 
of  a  hero-worshipper  struggling  in  his  voice. 

*•  Yes,"  answered  Louis  Savan,  feeling  glad  to  be  able 
to  contribute  even  second-hand  items  to  the  conversa- 
tion, "  he  saw  him,  and  he  has  come  to  tell  us  all  about 
it;  but  our  time  is  short.  We  must  find  our  beloved 
Barbe".  You  may  read  the  letter  at  your  leisure.  Much 
has  happened  since  it  was  written.  God  bringeth  forth 
nations  in  a  day.  Only  a  few  of  such  days  after  the 
writing  of  the  letter  in  your  hand,  and  this  same  Martin 
Luther  was  at  Worms;  and  long  before  that  Gerard 
Pastre  —  " 

"  I  was  with  Luther  from  the  hour  in  which  he 
received  the  summons  from  the  emperor,"  said  Gerard, 
who  knew  of  the  tremor  in  the  soul  of  Louis  Savan. 

Caspar  was  all  attention.  He  could  hear  from  the 
warm-hearted  Luther  at  last !  Erasmus  was  light,  re- 
vealing the  tinder  and  the  need  of  its  being  burned  up ; 
Luther  —  so  did  Caspar  believe  —  was  both  light  and 
fire.  He  saw  in  the  flame  within  Gerard  Pastre's  eye, 
that  that  fire  had  communicated  itself  to  at  least  one 
soul ;  there  was  a  conflagration  ahead.  Oh,  how  cold 


TWO  LETTERS.  15 

seemed  the  letter  of  Erasmus,  as,  half  afraid  to  speak, 
Gaspar  thought  of  it,  and  the  maiden  down  yonder  at 
the  foot  of  the  glacier. 

"  I  must  have  my  daughter?  "  he  averred  in  inquiring 
tones. 

"  Alke  !  "  said  both  Gerard  and  Louis  Savan.  "  Yes, 
truly." 

"She  must  hear  your  story,"  said  the  father,  fond, 
proud,  and  true.  "  She  is  down  by  the  torrent  with  the 
goats.  She  must  hear  it  all,  —  beloved  one  she  is  !  I 
can  walk  the  distance  again ;  "  and  he  rose  only  to 
sink  back  into  the  high-backed  oaken  chair,  worn  out  by 
his  illness,  and  exhausted  in  his  felicity  and  hope. 

As  soon  as  Gaspar  had  revived,  Louis  Savan  left  the 
cottage,  and  hurried  toward  the  glacier's  edge  to  fetch  the 
daughter  to  a  cottage  whose  roof  then  seemed  not  far 
from  the  illimitable  sky  beyond. 

Luther  !  —  what  a  theme  of  conversation,  what  a  star 
of  hope,  what  a  sword  of  triumph  had  that  name  been 
for  months  to  the  Waldensian  household  ! 

"  I  will  read  the  letter  to  you  now.  They  will  come 
presently,  and  Alke  may  read  it  again  for  herself,"  said 
Gerard,  anxious  to  behold  the  joy  it  was  sure  to  give  to 
the  sick  man. 

"  She  knows  the  writing  of  the  fiery  Martin.  Let  us 
be  thankful  for  fire  as  well  as  for  light,"  added  Gaspar. 
"  Let  me  hear  it." 

To  GASPAR  PERRIN  : 

I  am  on  my  way  to  Charles  V.,  Emperor,  A  safe  conduct 
has  been  promised  me,  by  request  of  God's  servant,  Fred- 
eric. I  have  no  confidence  in  princes ;  for  I  remember  the 
promises  made  to  John  Hus  of  Constance.  But  we  journey 
onward.  The  imperial  herald,  who  rides  before  us,  often 
looks  backward ;  and  the  Devil  is  in  his  eye.  I  cannot  decline 
to  go,  for  I  believe  God ;  and  I  believe,  also,  that  this  thing 
resolutely  done  will  be  for  His  glory. 


1 6  .JA'.VA    A. YD   KNIGHT. 

I  thank  your  minister  for  sending  Gerard  Pastre  to  me, 
with  good  news  of  your  faith  and  good  works.  God  will 
reward  His  saints.  1  am  now  out  of  sight  of  the  loved  towers 
of  Wittenberg.  Melancthon  has  promised  me  to  stand  by 
the  truth.  I  am  not  out  of  sight  of  God  Almighty ;  and  He 
has  promised  protection  and  succor.  Erasmus,  whom  you 
have  ceased  to  follow,  loses  credit  with  me  ever)-  day.  Two 
years  since,  he  wrote  me  exhorting  quietude.  God's  cause 
cannot  pause  for  his  good  taste.  Friends  can  do  much  for 
my  comfort.  Gerard  Pastre  is  a  solace  and  a  continual  joy 
unto  me.  But  it  may  be  that  he  will  have  to  leave  me  at 
Leipsic.  I  know  not  what  may  happen.  God  will  not  leave 
me.  I  write  this  to  you,  my  faithful  friend,  feeling  that  if 
I  die  on  my  way  to  Charles  V.,  you  may  know  that  I  was 
killed  on  my  way  to  heaven.  Murderers  can  only  hasten  my 
appearance,  by  the  sacrifice  of  His  Son,  at  His  throne. 

In  love  of  Christ, 

MARTIN  LUTHER. 


CHAPTER   II. 

GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  OF  WORMS. 

*  So  lay  the  world.     So  lie  the  frozen  fields 
Before  the  dawning  of  the  Arctic  day, 
Sick  for  the  sunshine,'  loathing  wearily 
The  cold,  illusive  gleam  of  fitful  lights 
That  toy  with  darkness  ;  then  up  leaps  the  sun, 
And  routs  those  mocking  lights,  and  changes  all." 

AS  Gaspar  touched  the  precious  manuscript,  —  more 
precious  to  his  soul  than  that  manuscript  of  Virgil, 
—  Alke,  radiant  and  beautiful  as  a  morning  cloud,  came 
to  the  side  of  her  father.  Saluting  Gerard  Pastre  as  she 
kissed  the  tears  out  of  Caspar's  hollow  cheeks,  she 
said,  — 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it  all,  —  all  but  the  story  of  the 
Diet  at  Worms.  Tell  me  !  " 

The  great,  deep,  expectant  eyes,  reflecting  the  struggle 
of  storm  and  sunlight,  looked  up  into  those  of  Gerard 
Pastre  as  he  spoke.  Gerard's  long  fingers  were  often 
pushed  through  masses  of  almost  yellow  hair,  and  his  feet 
moved  as  though  he  were  repeating  the  long  march  from 
Wittenberg  to  Worms.  The  suit  he  wore  was  stained 
and  weather-worn.  His  heavy  boots  contrasted  with  the 
less  coarse  foot-wear  with  which  he  had  usually  been  seen 
in  La  Torre,  as  the  rivers  of  Germany  with  the  silvery 
splendor  of  the  Pelice.  His  voice  seemed  more  mascu- 

VOL.  II. —  2 


1 8  AfO\A'  AA'D    K'XIGIIT. 

lino,  and  his  great  hands  clinched  whatever  came  in  their 
way,  as  he  proceeded  with  his  story. 

Every  step  was  described.  The  rough  but  intelligent 
mountaineer  was  eloquent  in  his  description.  Now  and 
then  the  clear  blue  eyes  glistened,  and  the  strong  utter- 
ance faltered  a  little ;  and  at  the  last  no  one  had  a  tear- 
less eye,  as  they  found  themselves  standing  breathless, 
each  with  attention  riveted  on  the  speaker,  while  his 
stalwart  body  looked  like  one  of  their  own  mountains 
smitten  with  thunderbolts  yet  defying  the  artillery  of  the 
skies ;  and  concluding  his  tale,  he  placed  one  foot,  as  it 
seemed,  upon  the  eternal  truth  ;  the  other  advanced  into 
what  appeared  to  be  the  certain  future,  and  cried  out, 
until  the  hills  gave  echo,  — 

"  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  retract.  Here  I  stand.  I 
can  do  ao  other.  May  God  help  me  !  "  So  Luther  had 
spoken. 

Everything  about  him  seemed  interesting ;  and  each 
word  concerning  Martin  Luther  was  an  invaluable  line 
that  helped  to  complete  the  picture  which  each  had 
made  of  the  young  Reformer. 

"  He  is  the  fire,"  said  Caspar,  as  his  swift-footed  mind 
flitted  along  the  route  which  had  just  been  described  to 
them  as  Luther's  path  to  the  Diet  of  Worms,  —  "  Martin 
Luther  is  the  fire,  and  woe  to  whatever  may  be  consumed 
in  its  flame  !  " 

Louis  Savan  was  a  little  inclined  to  be  captious,  even 
though  his  soul  was  entranced  with  the  scene  which 
Gerard  had  briefly  recited  to  them.  Fastidious  and  care- 
ful of  proprieties,  he  had  always  urged  his  fellow- Walden- 
sians  to  avoid  violence.  Luther  was  a  trifle  coarse  in 
the  picture  which  had  just  been  made  in  his  mind.  He 
ventured  to  say  to  Gerard,  — 

"  Did  you  not  deem  his  sayings  rough?  " 

"  As  rough  as  a  battle-axe  in  the  hand  of  a  single  un- 
protected follower  of  Christ,  when  every  friend  of  the 


GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  OF  WORMS.  19 

Devil,  from  the  emperor  to  the  theologian,  was  thirsting 
for  his  blood,"  said  Gerard  Pastre.  "  He  never  looked 
so  godlike  as  when  he  sent  a  message  saying  to  his  ab- 
sent friend  :  '  Christ  lives,  and  I  will  go  to  Worms  to 
brave  the  gates  of  hell  and  the  powers  of  the  air.'  " 

"And  he  never  faltered?"  inquired  Alke,  as  she 
stopped  cutting  the  loaf  of  acorn-bread  which  she  was 
preparing  for  the  hungry  visitors. 

"  Never !  Spalatin  urged  him  to  decline  entering 
Worms.  He  told  him  of  the  peril;  and  Martin  said 
only  this :  '  To  Worms  I  was  called,  and  to  Worms 
I  must  go.  And  were  there  as  many  devils  there  as 
there  are  tiles  upon  the  roofs,  yet  would  I  enter  that 
city ! '  " 

Louis  Savan,  a  little  anxious  for  the  dignitaries,  in- 
quired again  :  "  Did  he  respect  those  rulers  whose  power 
is  always,  as  you  know,  from  above  ?  " 

"  And  you  a  follower  of  Christ,  whom  the  rulers  of  His 
time  put  to  death  !  Ah,  Louis  Savan  !  Seckingen  asked 
him  to  come  to  his  castle  at  Ebernburg  to  do  all  and  to 
answer  all,  through  the  confessor  of  the  emperor.  Luther 
replied  :  '  Not  to  Ebernburg,  but  to  Worms  have  I  been 
summoned.  If  the  imperial  confessor  have  aught  to  say 
to  me,  let  him  seek  me  there.'  " 

"  Is  not  that  enough  for  you,  Louis?  "  asked  Gaspar, 
with  a  smile. 

"  Nay,"  answered  Louis ;  "  I  would  convert  unto  us, 
rather  than  repel,  even  kings." 

"  Our  cause  is  with  men  who  think,  and  kings  are 
usually  ignorant,"  ventured  Alke. 

"  The  youth,  the  thought,  the  hope  of  the  world  are 
ours,"  added  Gerard,  as  with  his  half-swallowed  mouth- 
ful of  bread  he  took  some  goat's  milk,  and  proceeded 
dramatically :  "  Students  shouted  for  him  at  Weimar,  as 
old  Leipsic  and  Nuremberg  had  greeted  him.  Forty 
horsemen  came  with  Jonas  Hessus  and  Crotus  to  take 


2O  \fO\h'  A.\D   K'XIGHT. 

him    to    his    old    convent    at    Erfurt,    where    the    prior 
welcomed  him." 

.t    I   want  to  feel  that  he  has  a  heart  as  well  as  a 
head,"  urged  Louis. 

"  Ah,  Louis  Savan  !  you  would  have  wept  full  plen- 
teously  had  you  seen  him,  as  I  did,  at  Eisenach.  His 
memory  unsealed  his  heart.  There  his  tears  flowed  in 
memory  of  the  loved  Gotta,  and  his  great  heart  spoke 
tenderly." 

"  There  is  fire  in  that  kind  of  light,"  interposed  Caspar, 
who  was  now  lying  on  the  couch  near  the  window,  looking 
out  on  the  snow-clad  heights,  looking  also  into  the  future. 

Louis  Savan  was  not  a  conservative,  if  by  that  is 
meant  a  reactionary.  He  was  only  one  of  those  persons 
whose  minds  never  see  truth  unaccompanied  with  good 
society  or  unadorned  with  good  taste  without  becoming 
just  a  little  offended,  either  at  the  truth  for  appearing  so 
unattended,  or  at  the  people  and  circumstances  whose 
absence  seems  so  unfortunate. 

Gerard  Pastre,  on  the  contrary,  like  Caspar,  was  a 
radical.  He  was  never  quite  so  sure  that  a  proposition 
had  truth  in  it  as  when  everybody  but  the  untitled  had 
pounced  upon  it.  He  therefore  took  no  little  pleasure  in 
saying  to  the  listeners,  —  each  of  whom  he  knew  to  be 
right  on  the  main  question,  — 

"  Even  the  barons  seem  to  be  with  him.  As  Martin 
passed  up  the  hall,  a  gauntlet  touched  his  shoulder.  Lu- 
ther looked  up  into  the  face  of  a  great  fellow  who  was 
covered  with  steel.  «  Pluck  up  thy  spirit,  little  monk  ! ' 
said  the  baron.  '  Some  of  us  here  have  seen  warm  work 
in  our  time ;  but  by  my  troth,  nor  I  nor  any  knight  in 
this  company  ever  needed  a  stouter  heart  than  thou  need- 
est  at  this  time.  If  thou  hast  faith  in  these  doctrines  of 
thine,  little  monk,  go  on,  in  the  name  of  God  ! ' ' 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  laughed  Caspar,  whose  weakness  made  his 
humor  more  impressive. 


GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  OF  WORMS.  21 

"  Did  he  appear  little  ?  "  asked  Alke. 

"  Nay,"  answered  Gerard,  who  stood  over  six  feet  at 
that  moment ;  "  though  he  seemed  little  enough,  often,  as 
I  walked  by  his  side.  But  he  was  big  enough  when  he 
replied  to  the  baron  and  said,  '  Yes,  in  the  name  of  God, 
in  the  name  of  God,  forward  ! '  He  seemed  little  enough 
when  yonder,  "  —  and  Gerard  pointed  toward  an  old  cup- 
board, which  looked  very  little  like  a  king's  seat, —  "  yon- 
der sat  the  emperor ;  around  him  were  knights  and  nobles 
without  number.  Closer  still  to  the  imperial  Charles  V. 
were  archbishops  and  ministers  of  State  ;  at  his  right  and 
left  hand  were  princes  of  the  empire.  Martin  looked 
little  enough  when  he  went  up  between  the  richly  orna- 
mented ranks.  He  had  only  a  coarse,  brown  frock  with 
which  to  outdazzle  the  gleaming  armor.  I  tell  you, 
Louis  Savan,  you  would  have  been  ashamed  of  his  clothes. 
There  he  was,  '  little  '  enough,  you  must  believe,  —  the 
son  of  a  poor  miner  before  a  sovereign  who  rules  half  of 
this  world ;  but  he  was  big  enough  when  he  said  to  me, 
who  was  a  little  worried  :  '  Gerard  Pastre,  I  stand  for  what 
all  your  Waldensian  fathers  have  believed  and  preached. 
God  is  with  me.  Fear  not ! ' ' 

"  Ah,"  said  Louis  Savan,  "  then  even  you  winced  a 
little.  Ah,  Gerard  !  " 

"  Why,"  said  Gerard,  "  I  was  afterward  ashamed.  The 
corrupt  Church  may  always  excel  us  in  that  kind  of  ap- 
pearances. He  was  always  majestic  at  majestic  moments, 
and  oftentimes  ue  made  the  moment  itself  majestic. 
Everybody's  eyes  were  on  him.  As  we  went  through  the 
city  gate,  I  could  hear  them  say,  '  That  is  Luther,  —  that 
monk  in  the  brown  frock  !  '  The  court  fool  tried  to  be 
sarcastic,  and  waving  his  torch  and  crucifix,  cried  out, 
'Ecce  advenit  quern  expectamus  in  tenebris.'  Alke, 
you  know  what  it  means?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  maiden;  " '  Behold  he  comes  whom 
in  the  darkness  we  have  expected.'  " 


22  AfO.YA'  .L\7)  K  XI  GUT. 

"  Well,"  continued  Gerard,  "  in  every  hour  like  that 
he  was  sublime.  Crowds  did  not  bewilder  him,  though 
the  house-tops  were  filled.  I  saw  him  once  silent,  and 
methought  tears  were  on  his  cheek,  when  an  old  soldier 
laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  said :  '  Poor  monk, 
poor  monk  !  thou  art  now  going  to  make  a  nobler  stand 
than  I,  or  any  other  captain,  has  ever  made  on  the 
bloodiest  field.  But  if  thy  cause  is  just  and  thou  art 
sure  of  it,  go  forward,  in  God's  name,  and  fear  nothing ! 
God  will  not  forsake  thee.'  " 

"  Nor  will  God  forsake  him,  so  long  as  he  walks  in  that 
path,"  said  Caspar,  wisely  shaking  his  head  in  earnest 
affirmation. 

Louis  Savan  was  annoyingly  silent.  Alke  busied  herself 
at  domestic  duties,  turning  her  fond  eyes  toward  her 
father  as  he  spoke,  and  often  quitting  her  task  inoppor- 
tunely to  get  closer  to  the  expressive  glance  of  Ge- 
rard, who  was  now  walking  over  the  floor,  and  re-creating 
for  the  complete  demolition  of  Louis  Savan's  doubt  the 
scene  of  that  memorable  second  day  at  the  Diet  of 
Worms.  Gerard  was  somewhat  irritated  that  Louis  had 
not  even  yet,  in  the  course  of  the  relation  of  these  events, 
cried  out  "  Bravo  !  "  and  he  had  even  begun  to  suspect 
that  his  description  of  the  scene  had  suffered,  because 
in  his  pointing  to  that  antique  cupboard  as  the  throne  of 
Charles  V.,  Louis  Savan  had  lost  his  vision  of  awe-inspir- 
ing princes  and  full-armored  knights  which  he  would 
have  him  imagine,  among  the  saucepans  and  pots  which 
lay  in  front,  too  prominent  to  require  an  effort  of  fancy 
to  behold  them. 

"  Courage  ?  "  cried  out  Gerard,  so  that  every  one  at- 
tended upon  the  opening  of  his  trembling  lips,  —  "  cour- 
age ?  Did  you  ask  if  his  courage  was  lodged  with  a  faith 
equal  to  a  long  strain  and  the  opposition  of  the  kings  of 
the  earth?  I  wish  that  every  coward  among  us  had 
been  at  Worms  on  that  second  day." 


GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  OF   WORMS,  2$ 

"  What  led  Martin  to  postpone  his  reply  which  the 
king  asked  for  on  the  first  day,  as  you  told  me?" 
inquired  Louis,  still  desirous  of  proof. 

"  Ah  ! "  replied  Gerard,  "  I  can  tell  you  there  was  never 
a  bolder  wisdom  than  his  at  that  moment  on  the  first 
day.  He  was  asked  two  questions :  <  Do  you  acknowl- 
edge these  books  ? '  and,  '  Are  you  prepared  to  retract 
what  they  contain  ?  '  The  first  he  answered  with  almost 
abrupt  swiftness.  It  would  have  been  grossly  precipitant 
in  even  such  a  scholar,  it  would  have  seemed  in  such  a 
presence  as  though  passion  lorded  it  over  reason,  had  the 
monk  as  hastily  answered  the  second  question.  It  was  a 
better  wisdom  than  that  which  fears  the  lapse  of  time, 
and  it  ruled  him.  No  one  can  say  now  that  Martin  Lu- 
ther cannot  hold  his  tongue.  He  has  a  temper  of  unusual 
heat,  but  his  wisdom  gave  him  such  self-command  that 
all  the  sparks  from  that  flame  went  up  the  chimney. 
\yhen  everybody  thought  he  had  wavered,  the  next  day 
he  came  back  to  give  twice  the  power  to  his  refusal  to 
retract,  because  what  they  thought  was  irresolution  or  in- 
decision was  found  to  be  deliberation  and  firmness  in 
holding  to  his  thought.  I  could  see  how  it  affected  even 
the  emperor.  At  the  end  of  the  first  day's  conference 
with  the  monk,  his  Majesty  said,  '  Truly  that  man  will 
never  persuade  me  to  turn  heretic  ! '  and  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  conference  of  the  second  day,  the  emperor 
looked  intently  upon  Martin,  set  his  large,  square  under- 
jaw,  as  if  in  determined  opposition,  looked  over  to  the 
chancellor  of  the  Elector  of  Treves,  and  shaking  his  head, 
confessed  his  astonishment.  When  Luther  was  done 
speaking,  I,  who  stood  only  near  enough  to  catch  a  few 
of  his  words,  heard  the  emperor  say,  amid  his  wrath  and 
awe,  '  Unbroken  courage  !  unquailing  heart !  '  " 

"But,"  said  the  chorus,  —  none  more  full  of  growing 
admiration  than  Louis  Savan,  — : "  tell  us  all,  —  the  monk's 
speech,  the  reply,  the  —  " 


24  J/VU'A"  A. YD    AW/G//T. 

''i  !  he  is  light  with  fire  behind  it,"  added  Caspar 
Perrin,  sure  that  he  had  a  good,  even  if  it  were  an  over- 
worked figure  of  speech,  whereat  I /mis  Savan's  enthu- 
siasm roused  Gerard,  and  he  resumed  his  story. 

"  Martin  Luther  knew  his  audience.  The  chief  per- 
sonage within  the  walls  was  the  emperor,  master  of  the 
richest  dominions,  East  and  We>t.  He  had  already 
treated  the  monk  with  insulting  silence.  Often  on  the 
route  had  Martin  told  me  of  the  letter  which  he  sent  to 
his  Serene  ,  truly  informing  him  of  the  greatness 

of  hi^  -id  the  hope  which  sat  awaiting  his  august 

command.  Martin  had  not  forgotten  that  the  emperor 
had  left  that  letter  unanswered,  and  that  his  Serene 
Majesty  thought  it  a  wiser  statesmanship  which  led  him 
to  intercept  Cardinal  Wolsey  and  Henry  VIII.  on  their 

>  feast  with  and  flatter  Francis  I.  on  the  Golden 
Field,  than  to  attend  to  the  demand  of  Europe  for  re- 
form. I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  I  stood  there,  within 
hearing,  by  the  side  of  a  bold  man  who  had  told  me 
about  the  magnificence  of  what  they  say  was  '  a  Field 
of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,'  that  Mirtin  Luther  remembered 
then  how  the  kings  of  the  earth  do  yet  create  tinselled 
pageants,  and  with  tumultuous  acclaim  do  yet  lie  to  one 
another  in  the  name  of  peace,  while  the  kingdom  of  God 
cometh  without  observation.  Ah  !  it  did  seem,  as  I  once 
looked  into  the  pale  face  of  the  young  emperor,  that  he 
saw  Somewhat  in  majesty  behind  the  brown-frocked 
monk. 

'•  It  had  been  a  great  audience  for  Martin  if  the  em- 
peror had  been  solitary.  The  emperor  had  broken 
many  a  lance,  but  had  never  before  met  such  a  foe. 
But  there  was  Aleander ;  his  very  presence  made  Martin 
pity  his  Majesty,  who  seemed  to  be  looking,  as  he  sat 
in  thoughtful  melancholy,  first  toward  Elector  Frederic, 
Luther's  protector,  from  whom  Charles  V.  had  received 
the  cro\vn ;  and  then  toward  Aleander,  who  had  urged 


GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  OF   WORMS  2$ 

his  Imperial  Majesty  to  drag  Luther  to  the  Diet.  When- 
ever Martin's  eye  flamed  toward  Aleander,  he  seemed 
to  feel  the  embarrassment  which  could  be  known  only 
to  a  papal  nuncio,  who  on  his  way  to  that  scene  had 
beheld  the  growing  triumph  of  the  ideas  whose  condem- 
nation he  sought.  Astonished  at  the  influence  of  Luther, 
he  had  been  unable  often  to  find  even  an  inn  which 
would  shelter  him.  But  now  the  Roman  courtier  would 
look  at  the  emperor  with  a  proud  hope,  —  a  hope  which 
seemed  to  decline  on  his  face,  as  he  remembered  how 
nearly  the  confessor  John  Glapio  had  ruined  his  intoler- 
ant programme  against  Martin,  and  how  often  his  Maj- 
esty had  grown  cold  in  the  cause  of  the  prosecution. 
Martin  appeared  to  seek  his  wandering  eye  as  he  entered  ; 
indeed,  Martin  had  told  me  that  Aleander  had  pursued 
him  with  incredible  fury.  He  called  him  that  ( apos- 
tate '  nuncio ;  and  yet  Martin  knew  that  he  was  very 
eloquent.  Luther  did  not  forget  that  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  on  his  way  into  the  Diet  Aleander  had  had 
the  breath  knocked  out  of  him  by  the  usher  who  hated 
his  cause,  the  nuncio  had  swept  that  assembly  with  his 
passionate  oratory.  The  monk  seemed  to  be  aware  that 
the  hour  of  another's  eloquence  had  come. 

"  Before  he  began  to  speak  he  paused,  as  if  becoming 
surer  of  his  feet ;  his  self-command  amazed  me,  as  I  saw 
him  look  upon  those  whose  faces  he  recognized  at  once. 
Among  dukes,  landgraves,  margraves,  counts,  and  barons, 
he  selected  those  to  whom  he  was  anxious  to  speak  im- 
portant words.  There  were  as  many  archbishops  as  there 
were  electors  and  dukes,  sixty  in  all ;  but  he  would  turn 
swiftly  as  he  thundered  forth  his  words,  from  the  Arch- 
bishop Albert,  whom  he  knew  to  be  hesitant  and  excited, 
toward  Duke  George  of  Saxony,  who,  he  was  aware,  hated 
him  with  violence,  and  yet  had  spoken  to  the  Diet  against 
the  indulgences  and  profanities  of  Rome  without  trem- 
bling in  a  single  syllable.  Guards  and  courtiers  swelled 


26  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

the  number  of  an  auditor)'  which  leaned  forward  breath- 
less, as  the  fearless  Martin's  eyes  swept  with  a  glance  across 
the  clouded  countenances  of  the  nuncios  of  his  Holi- 
ness, who  had  flocked  hither,  and  who  fluttered  about 
like  foul  birds  disappointed  of  their  carrion  ;  and  Luther 
fixed  their  gaze  for  a  moment  upon  the  Archduke  Fer- 
dinand, the  brother  of  the  king.  He  fairly  shook  the 
building  with  a  consciousness  of  the  inevitable  suprem- 
acy of  the  truth  against  all  kings  and  popes,  as  he 
cried  out :  *  If  I  were  to  recant,  what  should  I  do  but 
strengthen  tyranny? 'and  he  looked  a  thunderbolt  into 
the  open  gaze  of  the  Spanish  grandees,  who  had  come, 
as  he  saw,  to  institute  in  Luther's  beloved  Germany  an 
inquisition  as  murderous  as  their  own.  It  did  seem  that 
the  Duke  of  Alva  and  his  two  sons  would  smite  the 
agitated  monk  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  was  close  to  Bucer,  the  young  Dominican,  chap- 
lain to  the  Elector ;  and  he  was  all  a-trembling.  He 
whisperol,  •  Would  that  Martin  had  come  to  Ebernburg 
and  met  the  confessor  of  his  Majesty  ! '  Just  then  Mar- 
tin, as  if  remembering,  as  I  believe  he  did,  that  Paul  of 
Armsdorf,  confessor  and  grand  chamberlain  to  Charles  V., 
had,  in  his  fear  of  Luther,  tried  to  persuade  him  to  con- 
fer, as  Bucer  did  propose,  in  the  castle  of  Ebernburg,  — 
just  then  did  the  monk  with  a  blazing  phrase,  smite  him 
and  the  one  who  sat  next  to  him,  the  Bishop  of  Palermo 
and  Chancellor  of  Flanders,  who  had  desired  the  em- 
peror to  break  every  promise  of  safety ;  and  he  shouted 
the  words :  '  I  will  defend  myself,  after  the  example  of 
Jesus  Christ ! '  " 

"What  then  did  Bucer  say?"  asked  Alke,  who  was 
triumphing  with  Luther. 

"  Hush,  my  child  !  Tell  us  all,  Gerard  !  "  said  Caspar, 
who  was  resting  on  his  elbows  and  was  entirely  oblivious 
of  pain. 

-cry  moment  marked  a  victory,  not  more  of  Ian- 


GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  OF   WORMS.  2/ 

guage  than  of  action,  in  this  solid  man's  unpretentious 
eloquence.  Without  knowing  it,  he  drew  such  a  contrast 
between  the  power  of  the  unattended  truth  and  the 
weakness  of  decorated  error  as  never  one  saw  before. 
While  the  Pope's  adherents  were  boiling  with  anger  be- 
cause the  emperor,  or  at  least  the  chancellor,  did  not 
interrupt  him,  Martin's  eyes  burned  into  the  very  soul  of 
John  Eck,  the  chancellor  of  the  Archbishop  of  Treves, 
whose  great  voice' had  pronounced  the  charges  against 
him,  and  who  insisted  that  Luther  should  answer  as  an 
orator,  not  as  a  writer ;  so  that,  as  the  monk  pleaded, 
'  Prove  to  me  that  I  am  in  error,'  the  same  John  Eck 
looked  as  if  he  was  wishing  it  had  come  in  ink  rather 
than  in  such  startling  eloquence. 

"He  feared  nothing,  though  his  friends  were  few. 
Chiefest  was  Spalatin,  the  trusted  counsellor  of  the  elector, 
who  had  informed  Luther,  at  the  first,  of  Frederic's  friend- 
ship, who  had  sent  him  in  advance  a  note  of  the  articles 
which  he  might  retract,  who  at  last  had  become  alarmed 
and  had  said,  '  Abstain  from  entering  Worms  ! '  Once 
Martin  looked  straight  at  us  all.  Bugenhagen,  who  had 
joined  us,  having  escaped  death  at  Treptow;  Amsdorff, 
and  John  Schurff,  the  law  professor;  Peter  Suaven,  the 
Dane,  —  a  boy  even  yet  is  he ;  Justus  Jonas,  above  us  all, 
beloved  by  Luther,  —  it  is  not  wonderful  that  Erasmus 
has  spoken  so  well  of  him ;  —  there  we  stood,  as  near 
as  possible  to  the  Duke  Eric  of  Brunswick,  who  had 
provided  in  a  silver  vase  some  Eimbeck  beer  for  Martin ; 
while  by  him  was  Duke  Brandeburg,  who  wanted  Luther's 
ashes  at  once  for  the  Rhine.  Capito,  the  counsellor  of 
the  Archbishop  of  Mentz,  who  had  played  fast  and  loose 
with  Aleander  and  our  cause,  was  between.  Martin  saw 
his  friends,  then  his  half-hearted  admirers,  then  his  foes, 
like  light  shading  off  into  darkness.  He  looked  with  su- 
preme calm  upon  us  all ;  and  while  we  paused  even  in 
our  attention  to  him,  he  looked  over  the  deputies  of  the 


28  JlfO.VA'  AND   KXIC.HT. 

free  cities,  beyond  the  imperial  officers  who  had  con- 
ducted him,  and  turned  the  volume  of  fire  within  those 
eyes,  which  I  shall  never  forget,  upon  three  who  stood 
together,  —  the  Imperial  Herald,  the  Marshal  of  the 
Empire,  and  Father  Glapio. 

"  Caspar  Strum  had  presented  himself  at  Wittenberg, 
and  summoned  him  to  Worms ;  and  on  the  way  thither, 
Luther  had  won  his  admiration,  and  the  monk  dreamed  of 
the  conversion  of  this  herald  of  Charles  V.  Ulric  Pap- 
penheim  abided  with  the  two  counsellors  of  the  elector  at 
the  hotel  of  the  Knight  of  Rhodes,  saw  Luther  alight 
from  his  wagon,  and  had  told  him  amid  confusion  to 
speak  no  word  until  questions  were  put ;  and  now  Luther 
saw  that  this  hereditary  Marshal  of  the  Empire  was  un- 
der the  thrall  of  his  utterance.  Father  Glapio,  confessor 
of  the  emperor,  and  most  adroit  of  ecclesiastics,  had  been 
frightened  at  the  peril  of  the  imperial  throne,  before  this 
monk ;  Charles  V.  had  trusted  his  policies,  and  now 
Luther  had  astonished  the  Diet.  Luther  saw  the  terror 
upon  the  face  of  that  awful  monk.  Martin  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  the  emperor,  who  sat  white- faced  and  agi- 
tated. Luther's  cause  disdained  monarchs;  it  touched 
the  commonest  of  the  crowd  within,  and  Martin  felt  the 
power  of  the  greater  crowd  without. 

"  I  marked  him  well  when  again  it  sounded  without, 
as  though  the  Spanish  troops  had  attacked  the  two  thou- 
sand and  more  who  ran  by  Luther's  side  as  he  entered 
the  city.  Still  his  eyes  were  on  those  three  men,  as  the 
Italians  and  Belgians  swarmed  against  the  town  hall,  cry- 
ing out  their  impatience  ;  or  when  the  people  gazing  from 
the  windows  above  the  gardens  or  from  the  house-tops 
defying  all  orders  of  the  guards,  caught  up  the  hope  or 
fear  that  Luther  had  acceded  to  the  scheme,  and  had 
agreed  to  retract  only  what  they  termed  his  'errors 
in  doctrine.'  At  that  moment  these  three  men  within 
were  enslaved  to  that  piercing  glance ;  and  Luther,  dis- 


GERARD'S  ACCOUNT  OF   WORMS.  29 

daining  a  merely  political  reformation,  was  assuming  com- 
mand even  of  the  emperor,  as  he  at  last  said,  with  all  the 
power  of  God  in  his  utterance  :  '  I  neither  can  nor  will 
retract  anything.  I  stand  here.  I  can  say  no  more. 
God  help  me  !  Amen  ! ' ' 

Gaspar  was  sitting  bolt  upright  when  Gerard  concluded 
his  story. 

"  Our  leader  —  fiery,  impetuous,  wise,  and  fearless  — 
our  leader  is  the  German  monk  !  Has  the  Barbe"  heard 
of  this?" 

"  Nay  !  "  said  Gerard  ;  "  I  stopped  to  bring  to  you  the 
letter.  We  are  on  our  way  to  the  Barbd  at  once." 

"  May  God  bless  you  and  him  together  !  "  said  Gaspar. 

"  Gerard,  the  German  monk's  eloquence  has  made  you 
an  orator,"  remarked  Alke,  as  she  gave  him  some  wine. 
"  Be  sure  you  tell  this  whole  story  to  the  Barbe ;  the  be- 
loved man  may  have  wit  enough  to  choose  you  for 
coadjutor." 

"Will  you  paint  a  parchment  for  me?"  asked  the 
stalwart  young  Waldensian,  as  he  bowed  a  farewell. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A    VICTORY   AND   A    DEFEAT. 

A  king's  face 
Should  give  grace. 

Favorite  quotation  of  Henry  VIII. 

BEFORE  the  events  just  narrated  had  occurred, 
every  sensitive  soul  at  the  French  capital  had 
detected  one  of  those  tremors  running  along  the  ground 
which  indicate  the  action  and  interaction  of  forces  of 
the  first  significance.  Late  one  evening  in  1522,  Ami 
himself  was  standing  alone  in  that  vast  open  space  in 
front  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  lost  in  the  thoughts  which 
thronged  his  mind.  The  world  of  men  and  the  world  of 
books  lay  close  together  in  his  thinking,  for  they  almost 
overlapped  in  his  experience.  His  eyes  had  just  beheld 
again  the  statue  of  Pharamond,  standing  with  those  of  the 
rulers  of  France,  beneath  the  Gothic  vaulting  of  the  Pa- 
lais. He  was  on  his  way  from  those  gilded  walls  to  per- 
form a  service  for  Francis  I.  The  past  and  the  present 
were  meeting  in  his  imagination. 

The  spot  which  had  almost  fascinated  him  was  that 
which  an  old  monk  told  him  had  once  been  strewn  with 
the  fragments  of  one  of  the  bulls  which  the  industrious 
anti-pope  Benedict  was  in  the  habit  of  fulminating  at  an 
hour  less  significant  than  this.  Ami  was  almost  a  heretic. 


A    VICTORY  AND  A   DEFEAT.  31 

Indeed,  he  was  quite  sure  of  being  confirmed  in  his 
doubts  as  to  the  authority  of  the  Holy  See  over  his  con- 
science, until  that  flood  of  hate  which  rose  in  him  at  the 
thought  of  Vian  washed  his  convictions  away;  or  until  the 
report  that  Vian  had  himself  dared  to  question  the  claims 
of  his  Holiness  made  him  desire  to  remain  a  radical 
papist.  At  this  juncture  he  had  forgotten  Vian ;  and  he 
remembered  only  Benedict  and  his  contemporaries. 

"  This,  then,"  he  said  to  his  soul,  "  is  the  Holy  Papacy 
in  whose  absolute  authority  I  am  to  believe.  When  I  first 
saw  these  huge  buildings,  and  confessed  the  might  of  the 
Holy  Church,  I  could  not  understand  why  my  own  father, 
if  he  were  not  an  ignoramus,  could  have  lived  and  died 
protesting.  The  soul,  and  the  soul's  right  to  its  own  pow- 
ers are  greater,  however,  than  the  Church.  The  Church  is 
an  institution.  Institutions  are  meant  to  be  servants,  not 
masters  of  humanity.  When  I  think  of  this,  and  reflect 
how  many  Benedicts  and  his  like  my  father  was  expected 
to  believe  in  and  to  reverence,  I  cannot  understand  why, 
if  he  were  not  an  ignoramus,  he  could  do  anything  but 
protest." 

Ami  had  come  near  to  pronouncing  the  word  "  protes- 
tant,"  —  a  word  which,  seven  years  later,  at  the  Diet  of 
Spires,  should  have  its  public  birth-hour.  He  had  no 
dream  that  it  could  ever  signify  such  a  revolution  and  such 
a  history  as  lay  immediately  before  him. 

A  self-respectful,  intelligent  soul  alone  with  God,  in  the 
regal  enjoyment  of  its  own  powers,  clad  with  sovereignty 
over  its  own  divinest  energies,  honest,  fearless,  and  free, 
dwarfing  the  magnificence  of  a  Palais  de  Justice,  over- 
shadowing the  miraculous  grace  and  chiselled  grandeur  of 
this  superb  structure  by  his  own  solitary  and  self-assertive 
manliness,  —  there  is  no  such  scene  in  the  world.  At 
such  times  one  beholds  the  primacy  of  the  soul. 

.  "  For  out  of  thought's  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air." 


32  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

Here  was  man,  richer,  greater,  and  more  authoritative 
than  the  splendid  but  enslaving  circumstances  which  an- 
cestors and  predecessors  had  left  to  be  his  inspiration  or 
his  entanglement.  I  lere  the  Son  of  man  was  lord  also  of 
one  of  those  revered  institutions  whose  age  or  whose  vast- 
ness  always  silences  spiritual  mediocrity.  Here  was  hu- 
manity finding  in  its  own  breast  a  court  before  which  in 
a  few  years,  as  never  before,  tradition,  relic,  ecclesiastic, 
.Kin.  tiara,  and  crown  should  be  fearlessly  tried. 
In  one  soul  at  least  the  principle  of  Protestantism  was 
born. 

Not  gifted,  as  was  Vian,  with  philosophic  prevision, 
Ami  saw  not  the  tendency  within  protesting  toward  indi- 
vidualism, which  had  frightened  the  English  monk.  Not 
less,  however,  was  there  of  certainty  and  sympathy  in 
that  faculty  of  historic  imagination  before  whose  eye  the 
moon  unveiled  within  the  immense  front  of  the  building 
which  he  had  just  left,  an  incalculably  valuable  past. 

No  true  child  of  the  future  underestimates  the  past,  out 
of  whose  dark  root  and  shaggy  stem  the  blossoming  fu- 
ture comes.  But  Ami  had  other  problems  at  hand. 

"  Have  I  been  sent  again  to  obtain  a  ring  which  shall 
rob  another  man  of  his  wife  and  bring  another  Mme.  de 
Chateaubriand  hither  ?  "  queried  he. 

It  could  not  be.  But  the  thought  of  Mme.  de  Cha- 
teaubriand led  him  to  the  indulgences.  That  led  him 
to  the  increasing  sufferings  of  the  Reformers,  —  Louis  de 
Berquin,  Lefevre,  and  Farel.  The  moon  again  broke  like 
a  revelation  upon  the  Palais  de  Justice.  It  seemed  very 
great. 

As  Ami  looked  at  the  colossal  pile,  and  was  conscious 
of  the  infantile  freshness  of  his  ideas,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  beneath  that  shadow  many  a  young  man  had  foolishly 
set  himself  against  what  seemed  obsolescent  authority, 
and  found  it,  instead,  an  ever-enlarging  stream. 

"  This  building,"  said  he,  "  will  probably  echo  with  the 


A    VICTORY  AND  A   DEFEAT  33 

death-song  of  this  movement,  at  whose  head  is  only  a 
German  monk  who  once  had  to  sing  for  his  food." 

Ami  could  not  see  that  before  1619  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice would  be  an  ash-heap,  and  the  Reformation  the  con- 
queror of  Europe. 

Back  again  did  his  mind  go  to  the  serene  confidence 
of  Lefevre,  Farel,  and  Louis  de  Berquin,  the  scholar. 
Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  just  bent  the  knee  and 
crossed  himself  in  front  of  the  figure  of  the  Virgin,  before 
which  stood  a  statue  of  Louis  XL  kneeling.  In  his  new- 
found manhood  and  now,  he  would  have  stood  on  his 
feet,  and  deemed  himself  the  more  a  man  because  of  the 
man-child  whom  the  Virgin  bore.  He  wanted  to  return 
and  to  tell  the  few  workmen  who  still  lingered  to  admire 
those  fine  fantasies  wrought  in  marble,  with  which  the 
ornate  chapel  was  being  further  enriched,  that  they  need 
not  return  to  toil  and  carve  on  the  morrow. 

"  '  And  the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent  in  twain  from 
the  top  to  the  bottom,'  — that,"  said  Ami,  "I  have 
pondered  over  with  Master  Lefevre,  Louis  de  Berquin, 
and  William  Farel.  Ah,  yes  !  when  the  Son  of  Man 
wrought  man's  redemption,  the  day  of  the  temple  had 
gone.  Man  alone  became  supremely  sacred." 

And  Ami  reflected  upon  that  other  word  :  "  And  I  saw 
no  temple  there." 

"  Did  not  the  eloquent  Saint  Chrysostom  say,  « The 
true  shekinah  is  man  '  ?  Heaven,  wherever  it  may  be, 
and  whatever  it  may  be,  is  that  state  in  which  man 
has  found  his  rightful  supremacy.  Institutions  are  but 
instrumentalities  wherewith  to  upbuild  man.  As  the  au- 
thority of  man,  on  whose  heart  God  has  written  His  law 
in  the  love  of  Christ,  grows,  the  institutions  which  he  made 
for  himself  as  he  developed  will  fall  away ;  and  we  shall 
see  no  temple  there.  Every  institution  from  this  time 
forth  will  be  less  material,  more  spiritual.  The  spirit  of 
man  will  at  last  be  God's  only  temple.  I  remember  now 
VOL.  n.  —  3 


34  AfO.YA'  AND   KXIGIIT. 

that  Master  Louis  Berquin  has  quoted  often  to  me, 
'  Fir>t,  the  natural ;  afterward,  the  spiritual.'  " 

There  was  a  light  around  and  within  Ami  more  fasci- 
nating, more  brilliant,  than  the  moonlight. 

Could  it  be  that  this  errand  upon  which  the  king  had 
sent  Ami  was  another  Pandora's  box  of  evils? 

The  feelings  which  led  him  to  be  anxious  about  it  had 
made  him  defiant  in  the  presence  of  enormous  buildings. 
They  had  been  inspired  by  the  recollection  that  on  that 
day,  one  year  before,  the  Sorbonne,  under  the  leadership 
of  Beda,  had  ordered  Luther's  writings  to  be  burned  pub- 
licly. That  night  the  discouraged  Ami  had  gone  to  sleep 
upon  Astre"e's  bosom,  as  they  lingered  too  long  in  the  bal- 
cony ;  and  he  awoke  dreaming  that  the  Syndics  had  com- 
pelled him  to  pile  fagots  about  a  beautiful  woman  who 
was  a  heretic,  whose  scorched  face  at  length  he  discov- 
ered to  be  AstreVs. 

"  May  the  saints  preserve  my  soul  from  such  another 
dream  as  that !  "  said  Ami,  when  a  few  hours  after,  he 
met  Nouvisset.  '.'  But  I  am  the  king's  friend,  —  yes,  the 
king's  friend  ! " 

"  Do  not  expect  to  be  happy,"  said  the  lame  knight, 
"  so  long  as  you  tolerate  that  infernal  passion  of  jealousy 
in  your  bosom." 

For  hours  these  words  echoed  in  the  young  knight's 
breast. 

"  I  am  not  jealous  of  Duprat,  or  Louise  of  Savoy,  or 
the  Sorbonne ;  it  is  impossible,"  reassuringly  mused  the 
young  man. 

But  it  was  not  impossible.  Ami's  unregulated  soul  was  un- 
able to  permit  another  to  influence  one  whom  he  loved 
as  Ami  loved  his  king. 

"  So  long  as  I  love  God,  I  must  hate  iniquity,"  said 
the  conscientious  knight,  who  did  not  know  how  easily 
conscience  may  be  beguiled  into  service  with  self- 
assertion. 


A    VICTORY  AND  A   DEFEAT.  35 

Alone  again  in  the  moonlight,  he  thought  of  the  king's 
disquieted  realm ;  and  it  was  not  strange  that  his  self- 
consciousness  grew  rather  arrogant  as  he  reflected  that 
every  tendency,  which  was  leading  the  France  of  1522 
downward,  had  been  met  by  his  opposition. 

As  long  ago  as  in  the  early  months  of  1516, 
shortly  after  the  visit  to  Bologna,  Francis  I.  had  tried 
to  persuade  Ami  that  the  Concordat  was  an  un- 
mixed blessing.  The  knight  had  never  hesitated  in 
his  replies. 

"The  Chancellor  Duprat  sees  ahead  of  him  nothing 
but  the  ten  archbishops,  nearly  a  hundred  bishops,  and 
five  times  as  many  abbots,  who  must  now  supplicate  the 
throne.  Parliament  —  good  Sire  !  be  patient  with 
me  —  " 

"Only  your  service  at  Marignano  and  the  saying  of 
the  astrologer  keep  me  so.  Ami !  "  said  the  king,  who 
was  greatly  irritated.  "  Proceed  about  Parliament." 

"Parliament,"  continued  Ami,  who  never  lost  his 
temper  with  Francis  I.,  "  sees  something  else ;  and 
that  is  that  your  Majesty's  powers  are  too  nearly 
absolute." 

"  I  will  answer  you,  Ami,  as  I  answered  the  deputies : 
'  I  know  that  there  are  in  my  Parliament  good  sort  of 
men,  wise  men ;  but  I  also  know  there  are  turbulent 
and  rash  fools.  I  have  my  eye  upon  them;  and  I  am 
informed  of  the  language  they  dare  to  hold  about  my 
conduct.  I  am  king,  as  my  predecessors  were ;  and  I 
mean  to  be  obeyed,  as  they  were.'  " 

"You  have  great  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  your 
chancellor,  Sire  ! " 

"  Did  I  not  tell  the  deputies,"  vociferated  Francis  I., 
"  that  a  hundred  of  their  heads  had  been,  seven  months 
and  more,  painfully  getting  up  these  representations, 
which  my  chancellor  blew  to  pieces  in  a  few  days?  There 
is  but  one  king  in  France.  I  have  done  all  I  could  to 


36  MONK  AND  h'XIGHT. 

restore  peace  to  my  kingdom  ;  and  I  will  not  allow  nulli- 
fication here  of  that  which  I  brought  about  with  so  much 
difficulty  at  Marignano  and  Bologna.  My  Parliament 
would  set  up  for  a  Venetian  senate ;  let  it  confine  its 
meddling  to  the  cause  of  justice,  which  is  worse  adminis- 
tered than  it  has  been  for  a  hundred  years.  I  ought, 
perhaps,  to  drag  it  about  at  my  heels,  like  the  Grand 
Council,  and  watch  more  closely  over  its  conduct." 

The  outburst  was  medicinal.  Ami  was  serene.  From 
that  hour  the  King  of  France  had  begun  to  learn  a  better 
wisdom  ;  and  as  the  knight  thought  again  of  the  Con- 
cordat, he  made  a  note  of  the  fact"  that  never  did  his 
ign  so  much  as  now  appear  to  desire  his  opinions 
as  to  the  real  interests  of  France. 

A  little  later,  however,  the  king  showed  great  ill-temper 
at  finding  that  Ami  and  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon  had 
been  helping  on  the  influence  of  Louis  de  Berquin  the 
scholar,  and  William  Farel  the  preacher;  also  was  he 
provoked  because  they  had  given  aid  to  Briconnet,  who 
had  now  become  offensive  to  Louise  of  Savoy,  in  his 
efforts  to  reform  the  Holy  Church. 

"  You,  Sire,  have  changed  your  attitude  toward  the 
scholars,"  said  Ami,  who  remembered  the  day  when  his 
Majesty  said  :  "  I  want  to  favor  those  who  teach  us.  I 
wish  to  have  able  men  to  live  in  my  country." 

••  Not  seriously,"  answered  his  Majesty.  "  Scholars 
are  harmless  enough  so  long  as  they  are  in  the  minority ; 
but  they  are  flocking  about  Louis  Berquin  and  William 
Farel  in  clouds." 

"Shall  the  fact  that  truth  and  learning  are  growing 
make  you  despise  their  champions?"  asked  the  un- 
nerved knight. 

'•  Ami,  your  goodness  is  like  the  art  of  a  virtuoso,  as 
the  Italians  say.  I  like  our  poet  Clement  Marot." 

"  So  also  do  I ;  but  he  writes  —  " 

"  Love  poems  for  our  '  Marguerite  of  Marguerites  '  ?  " 


A    VICTORY  AND  A   DEFEAT,  37 

"  I  see  only  the  Psalms  of  David,  which  they  translate 
and  make  into  rhymes." 

"  Ah,  Ami,  do  you  really  love  Astre"e  ?  " 

The  king  laughed  so  coarsely  that  Ami  heard  within 
it  a  sneer  at  Reformers,  and  his  Majesty's  contempt  for 
a  pure  affection.  They  separated. 

"  How  far,  for  the  sake  of  France,  dare  I  stretch  the 
tie  which  binds  my  king's  soul  to  the  astrologer's  words?  " 
said  Ami  to  Astree,  whom  he  sought  instantly  upon 
the  king's  departure.  "  How  long  may  I  count  upon  the 
friendship  of  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon,  —  his  '  darling 
Marguerite  '  ?  I  will  load  every  power  with  all  that  it 
may  carry,  in  order  to  ally  his  Majesty  with  the  cause  of 
reform." 

Astr£e's  eyes  were  soft  and  brilliant  with  happy  tears. 
Her  hand  was  unsteady,  as  she  stood  close  to  the.  tall 
knight  and  lost  her  white  and  jewelled  fingers  in  his 
thick,  long  hair.  She  had  trembled  for  their  love  often- 
times, as  she  followed  his  thoughts  from  place  to  place, 
and  could  determine  from  the  stern  eye  of  flame  that 
they  had  reached  that  desolating  spot,  —  "  the  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold."  Recently,  however,  Ami  had  been  so 
under  the  influence  of  the  simple  eloquence  of  Farel,  or 
the  unaffected  goodness  of  his  teacher  Louis  Berquin, 
that  it  appeared  improbable  that  ever  again  the  word 
"  Vian  "  could  disturb  his  spirit.  Now  she  even  believed 
it  safe  for  her  to  tell  him  of  what  she  felt  he  ought  to  know, 
since  his  mind  was  so  set  toward  identifying  itself  with 
the  Reformers.  They  were  beginning  to  surfer  ignominy 
and  outrage.  Ami's  future  course  ought  to  be  begun 
with  the  consciousness  of  everything  which  could  bear 
upon  it. 

"  Surely,"  she  said,  as  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon  told  her 
of  the  letter  of  Erasmus  to  Francis  I.,  —  "  surely  there 
can  be  no  plan  to  torture  us.  Vian  a  Reformer  ?  If  it  be 
true,  Ami  must  know  it." 


38  MONK  AND  K. \1GIIT. 

Astre"e  read  the  letter  for  herself,  over  and  over  again. 
It  was  from  Erasmus  to  Francis  I.  These  words  were 
only  a  portion  of  its  message  :  — 

"  Of  that  most  promising  scholar,  Vian,  who  was  of  Glas- 
tonbury  Abbey,  and  of  whom  I  wrote  you,  I  must  say 
this  much,  —  while  as  a  scholar  he  would  serve  admirably  as 
professor  in  the  University,  it  is  to  be  considered  also  that 
other  matters  may  unfit  him  for  such  a  life.  Master  Thomas 
More  writes  me,  that,  since  the  meeting  of  your  Majesty 
with  the  Sovereign  of  England  at  Guisnes,  the  monk  has 
suffered  from  an  hallucination, — such  as  young  monks  do 
have  seldom,  —  the  vision  of  a  beauteous  damsel.  He  has 
also  looked  so  favorably  upon  the  Reforming  party  that  the 
abbot,  if  indeed  Vian  is  yet  at  Glastonbury,  anticipates  in 
him  at  any  time  a  turbulent  Lutheran." 

Within  an  hour  after  Astree  had  read  these  words,  the 
face  of  Ami  was  pressed  against  her  own.  It  was  hot, 
and  his  eyes  were  restless. 

"  I  have  just  seen  a  most  atrocious  machine,  —  cruelty 
invented  it,"  said  Ami,  as  he  sighed.  "  Duprat  has  made 
ready  to  send  it  to  the  mountains  for  the  extirpation  of 
heresy.  One  victim  has  already  perished  upon  it.  It  is 
most  incredible  that  men  should  seek  to  drag  convictions 
out  of  the  soul,  as  the  bones  are  crushed,  the  muscles 
torn  away,  and  human  blood  spurting  over  it  all.  Oh,  it 
is  an  awful  spectacle  !  " 

Ami  had  beheld  only  one  of  those  engines  of  death 
which  were  so  soon  to  be  used  by  the  Holy  Church. 

Astr£e  was  calm,  for  she  believed  this  to  be  the  mo- 
ment which  she  desired.  "If,"  she  thought,  —  "if  he 
is  so  roused  against  the  wrong  done  by  the  Church,  he 
will  not  likely  allow  anything  to  unsettle  his  purpose. 
It  may  be  that  in  this  better  passion  of  protesting  zeal 
the  ugly  fiend  which  besets  his  soul — jealousy  —  will 
perish.  The  saints  help  me  !  " 

Slowly  and  painfully,  even  with  the  blushing  embarrass- 


A    VICTORY  AND  A   DEFEAT.  39 

ment  which  a  beautiful  girl  must  feel  at  such  a  state  of 
affairs,  did  she  proceed  to  her  task  and  perform  it.  She 
recited  the  letter  concerning  Vian. 

"And  you,"  cried  Ami,  his  cheeks  white  with  rage, — 
"  and  you  knew  it  before  this  moment  ?  Why  ?  —  why, 
Astre"  e  —  "  Ami  was  transformed.  His  breath  faltered 
at  her  name.  "Why?"  half  whispered,  half  shrieked, 
hissed,  and  lingered  in  the  palate  of  the  knight.  His 
fine  teeth  glistened,  and  his  mobile  lips  quivered,  as  he 
still  uttered  the  word  "Why?  "  "Why  should  you  have 
had  to  do  with  telling  me  of  him?" 

Ami's  eyes  were  only  the  eyes  of  a  jealous  man.  He 
could  see  nothing  in  the  universe  that  did  not  connect 
itself  with  Vian,  and  depend  upon  the  detested  name. 
Vian  had  already  ruined  his  life,  as  Ami  believed.  To 
complete  the  disaster,  he  had  made  the  men  of  the  Re- 
form an  abominable  band,  by  his  presence  among  them. 
There  appeared  no  place  for  an  explanation.  Most  hid- 
eous of  all  was  the  reflection  that  he  was  dreaming  of 
Astre*e,  —  an  hallucination  ! 

Astree  tried  in  vain  to  assure  him.  He  could  hear 
nothing  but  that  clatter  of  horse's  hoofs  on  the  "  Field 
of  the  Cloth  of  Gold." 

"  Do  you  not  even  see  me?  "  cried  Astre"e. 

He  saw  nothing  but  Vian  saving  Astree  there,  —  the 
dust,  and  Astree  in  Vian's  arms. 

Probably  she  could  touch  his  conscience.  "  What ! 
Ami,  you  do  not  mean  the  less  to  despise  the  rnethod  of 
that  cruel  machine  of  torture,  because  one  whom  you 
hate  has  perhaps  also  despised  it?"  she  said. 

"Torture  !  "  cried  he,  as  he  threw  her  slender  loveli- 
ness aside,  —  "  torture  !  If  I  go  not  with  the  Reform,  the 
cruel  machine  is  my  weapon ;  if  I  go,  the  —  I  cannot 
think,  Astree." 

No,  Vian,  no  jealous-  man  is  able  to  think  in  straight 
lines.  Reasonless,  he  seeks  rest  also,  but  finds  none. 


40  JAAVA"  A. YD    A\\7G//r. 

Two  terrible  things  —  Yian  and  that  rack  —  were 
all  he  saw ;  and  he  was  mute  as  his  soul  swayed 
between  them.  He  took  hold  of  the  sobbing  girl 
at  his  feet,  and  lifting  her  with  tenderness,  went  out 
into  the  deep  night,  from  which  the  moon  hid  herself 
with  clu1: 

loni;  after  that  wretched  night,  Ami  and  Astree 
were  confronted  with  other  questions.  Did  she  find  a 
solution  for  that  earlier  problem?  Yes;  and  it  lay  in 
the  self-respect  which  she  urged  upon  Ami,  —  a  self- 
t  whii-h  compelled  in  some  ameliorating  measure 
Ami's  respect  for  her. 

"  Knight  and  friend  of  his  Majesty  that  you  are  !  "  she 
said,  as  into  the  darkness  he  bore  her,  "never  again 
shall  those  lips  touch  mine  own,  until  I  am  assured  that 
you  trust  me  sufficiently  to  care  nothing  for  Vian.  Yes, 
1  will  pronounce  his  name.  If  I  had  not  adored  you, 
Ami,  your  injustice  to  him  and  your  distrust  of  me  had 
driven  me  to  love  its  sound.  You  have  distrusted 
me  —  " 

"  Never,  Astree,  never ! "  Ami  saw  the  flash  of  a 
radiant  self-respect  in  the  black  eyes,  —  a  flash  whose 
gleam  shot  through  the  darkness. 

"  So  long  as  you  believe  that  Vian's  imagined  interest  in 
me  could  possibly  make  a  transformation  in  me  or  even 
interest  me,  you  have  failed  to  honor  my  love  for  you. 
•Never  "  —  Ami  had  lifted  her  nearer  to  his  breast,  and 
now  he  saw  the  trembling  lips  so  near  —  "  never,  until 
you  respect  me,  Ami,"  she  whispered. 

He  had  never  known  before  the  sorrow  of  not  being 
able  to  manifest  his  love.  It  quickened  his  sense  of 
Astree's  loveliness.  She  was  a  necessity  to  his  existence. 
Oh,  how  lovable  she  seemed  ! 

But  nothing  in  love's  armory  is  strong  enough,  until  it 
is  stronger  than  any  foe  it  may  meet.  AstreVs  eyes  were 
telling  him  these  things,  —  eyes  so  strongly  commanding, 


A    VICTORY  AND   A   DEFEAT.  41 

intrenched  behind  tears.  At  length  the  victory  was  hers, 
and  therefore  his.  In  one  long  embrace  they  forgot 
Vian. 

A  victory,  indeed,  though  only  temporary ;  for  no  soul 
for  whom  the  Infinite  Love  has  not  done  more  than  this, 
is  free  from  the  marauding  of  such  a  passion. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
A  VIRTUOSO'S  STATESMANSHIP. 

"  Never  a  thought  o'er  the  boundary  flying, 
Never  a  thought  as  the  clouds  swing  by." 

DESPITE  the  fact  that  Ami's  intense  passion  in  this 
instance  soon  exhausted  itself,  leaving  however, 
as  it  had  each  time  before,  a  wider  field  in  his  soul  for  its 
fun-  when  it  should  come  again,  his  troubles  of  a  less  law- 
less and  more  personal  kind  were  multiplying. 

"A  virtuoso!" — this  was  the  only  term  of  implied 
contempt  which  Francis  I.  had  ever  visited  upon  Ami's 
opinions  of  policies  of  State.  It  rankled  like  an  arrow 
which  still  hung  in  his  breast.  He  could  scarcely  trust 
himself  to  recall  the  temper  of  the  king,  as  he  spoke  it, 
that  day;  and  it  was  unsafe  for  him  to  utter  it,  even  to 
Astr£e,  for  she  might  pity  him.  A  man  capable  of  jeal- 
ousy has  a  most  sensitive  pride,  and  often  it  is  likely  to 
behave  worst  when  it  is  made  the  recipient  of  pity.  • 

One  man,  beside  Nouvisset,  understood  Ami ;  that  was 
his  earliest  friend,  Francesco.  To  him,  at  this  juncture, 
Ami  would  most  naturally  go,  because  much  that  he 
had  to  complain  of  in  the  government  concerned  itself 
with  the  Italian  ambassador  and  ally,  who  had  been  like 
a  father  to  Francesco,  —  Admiral  Andrea  Doria. 

This  noble  Genoese  we  have  already  met  at  the  French 
capital.  By  this  time,  Louise  of  Savoy  and  Duprat  were 


A    VIRTUOSO'S  STATESMANSHIP.  43 

looking  at  'him  only  as  one  who  was  able  to  perform 
certain  most  menial  services  for  France.  Generous  as 
was  the  great  admiral,  filled  as  was  his  mind  with  memories 
of  engagements  successfully  undertaken  against  Turk  and 
Moor,  he  had  never  fancied,  as  the  plans  of  Francis  I. 
led  him  on  into  service,  that  the  day  was  surely  coming 
when  the  ill-concealed  contempt  of  the  courtiers  toward 
him  would  ripen  into  insult.  Ami,  who  did  not  under- 
value the. services  of  the  admiral  to  his  sovereign,  was  too 
knightly  to  intimate,  even  to  Francesco,  his  dread  of  the 
miserable  schemes  of  those  at  court  who  had  grown  jeal- 
ous of  Andrea  Doria ;  but  instead,  he  besieged  Francis  I. 
with  protests  against  such  a  course  as  would  exile  this 
loyal  ally  and  heroic  servant. 

It  was  very  difficult  for  Ami  so  to  confine  his  complaints 
as  to  omit  Andrea  Doria's  name.  Francesco  and  he 
walked  together  toward  the  lodgings  of  Louis  Berquin 
the  scholar,  from  whom  Ami's  conscience  could  not 
entirely  detach  itself.  Just  the  day  before,  he  had  noted 
another  triumph  of  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  over  the 
will  of  the  king. 

"The  patient  queen,"  said  Ami,  "ought  to  demand 
her  head." 

Francesco  thought  a  moment,  confident  that  even  Ami 
could  hardly  desire  such  a  catastrophe  to  come  so  near 
to  Astree,  whom,  but  for  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand,  Ami 
might  never  have  seen. 

^  "  I  know  your  thought,"  said  the  knight,  bravely 
wrestling  with  his  own ;  and  then,  as  though  he  had  de- 
tected a  foul  odor  upon  the  air,  which  was  otherwise 
fragrant  with  roses,  he  added :  "  The  purest  love  here  is 
sure  to  be  blown  upon  by  a  stench —  What  is  that, 
Francesco  ?  " 

"  Only  one  of  the  peddlers,"  answered  Francesco,  as 
they  turned  about  and  followed  the  crowd,  which  had 
gathered  about  a  noisy  monk  who,  with  a  few  hairs  which 


44  MONA'  .-L\V)   KNIGHT. 

he  exhibited  and  certain  bits  of  bones  to  which  he  asked 

reverence,  began  to  preach,  beating  now  and  then  upon 

a  broken  drum,  and  stopping  his  discourse  for  nothing 

iic  jxjor  people  who  were  buying  indulgences. 

Never  before  in  the  city  had  these  men  beheld  a  sale 
such  as  this.  Once  near  Chilly,  as  they  visited  the 
peasant  with  Nouvi>sct,  had  they  beheld  a  Bellicose  monk 
train  the  stubborn  citizens  into  a  credulity  as  to  the  value 
of  the  printed  briefs  of  indulgence  which  he  had  to  sell ; 
and  once,  only  once,  had  Louise  of  Savoy  explained  to 
Ami  how  courtiers  and  royal  personages  obtained  such 
releases  from  the  results  even  of  prospective  lapses  from 
righteousness  as  under  certain  circumstances  might  be 
desirable,  even  for  him. 

The  instant  the  white  lips  of  Louise  soiled  the  name 
•ree  in  that  connection,  the  young  knight  looked 
lightnings  into  her  eyes ;  but  the  crafty  woman  only  said, 
"  Perhaps  the  heretics  may  make  life  more  pleasant  for 
you."  The  indignation  which  had  grown  up  with  that 
memory  now  seethed  in  Ami's  soul,  as  the  monk  went  on 
preaching  about  the  blessed  Leo  X.,  and  the  huge  fabric 
of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  which  his  Holiness  was  anxious  to 
complete. 

"  The  Holy  Father  appeals  to  his  children,  and  his 
children  must  have  the  Pope's  seal  upon  the  briefs," 
mechanically  sang  out  the  monk,  as  he  handed  forth  a 
bit  of  parchment  to  a  coarse  and  well-known  sinner,  who 
smiled  and  said,  — 

"  Eh  ?  Three  hundred  years  less  of  purgatory  in 
exchange  for  my  coins  !  " 

"  Was  there  such  indecency  in  the  days  of  the  first 
Pope,  Saint  Peter?  "asked  Francesco,  who  was  never 
so  conscious  of  small  attainments  in  ecclesiastical  history 
as  when  he  was  with  Ami. 

"  No,"  answered  the  latter,  rather  aimlessly  as  it  ap- 
peared;  but  he  was  determined  to  let  church  affairs 


A    VIRTUOSO'S  STATESMANSHIP.  45 

alone  for  the  present,  and  therefore  added  :  "  I  am  sure 
that  money  can  be  raised  for  almost  anything,  Francesco. 
The  brother  of  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  is  here  from 
Lombardy." 

"  True,  Lautrec  was  at  court,  intent  on  a  rich  marriage, 

—  a  marriage  which  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  had  planned, 

—  and  intent  also  on  taking  back  a  large  sum  wherewith 
to  pay  the  troops  with  which  he  had  been  trying  to  de- 
fend the  Milanese  since  the  battle  of  Marignano. 

"  We  have  costly  indulgences  at  court,"  said  Ami, 
sadly,  "  and  an  empty  treasury." 

"  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  —  "  ventured  Francesco, 
who  was  bright  enough  to  reflect  that  every  man  desires 
to  condemn  his  own  relatives  prospective,  if  condemna- 
tion is  necessary. 

"  She  ought  to  supply  the  necessities  of  Lautrec  with 
the  jewels  which  the  king  has  given  her." 

"  How  much  does  a  papal  brief  for  such  indulgences 
cost,  Ami?  "  inquired  Francesco,  as  they  walked  on  to- 
ward Louis  Berquin's  lodgings. 

"I  am  not  acquainted  with  things  ecclesiastical,"  said 
Ami,  glad  to  get  away  from  the  torture  of  a  dilemma, 
one  of  whose  horns  was  named  Vian ;  the  other,  corrup- 
tion and  torture.  "  This  I  do  know  about  things  politi- 
cal :  the  king's  mother  has  worked  out  a  scheme  for 
Lautrec  and  herself.  Of  course,  I  am  but  a  virtuoso  ! 
But  I  have  been  true  to  my  king,  and  I  told  him  of  the 
peril  which  comes  from  an  outraged  people.  Lautrec 
goes  back  with  promises  of  money.  Mark  me,  Fran- 
cesco, he  will  be  compelled  to  levy  upon  the  duchy, 
and  the  Swiss  army  will  dissolve.  He  is  incapable 
enough  with  a  rich  court ;  he  is  imbecile  in  his  plans 
without  one." 

Louis  Berquin  was  absent,  and  the  delightful  hour 
which  these  two  restless  minds  had  promised  themselves 
in  his  presence  was  lost  to  them.  Deeper  was  the  gath- 


46  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

ering  darkness  in  which  Ami  felt  that  the  sun  of  Francis  1. 
might  be  going  down. 

"  No  sooner  had  Bourbon  become  wifeless,  than  Louise 
of  Savoy  began  to  claim  the  inheritance,"  said  Ami. 

"What  inheritance?"  asked  Francesco. 

"  First,  the  inheritance  of  property,  and  then  the 
man's  heart." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Italian,  "  she  has  been  after  Bourbon's 
heart  since  we  were  children,  Ami.  But  Bourbon  will 
never  forget  that  the  lovely  Marguerite  would  have  been 
his,  but  for  her  mother  ;  and  that  Bonnivet  —  " 

"  Bonnivet  would  not  have  been  shielded  in  his  love 
for  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon,  if  her  mother  had  not  hated 
Bourbon,  whom  she  cannot  rule  even  now." 

"  Things  are  at  sword's-points,  then  ?  Bourbon  detests 
Bonnivet." 

"  Did  the  constable  not  tell  the  king,  when  his  Majesty 
showed  him  the  plans  of  Bonnivet's  palace,  that  the  cage 
would  be  too  magnificent  for  the  bird  ?  " 

"  What  think  you,  Ami?" 

"  Is  it  treason  to  be  true,  Francesco?  No?  Then  let 
me  whisper  it  to  you  that  the  king's  mother  —  I  have 
said  it  to  his  Majesty  —  desires  the  ruin  of  the  powerful 
Bourbon.  The  king  must  not  lose  Bourbon.  Shall  I  say 
more?" 

"  If  it  be  in  your  heart,  poor  burdened  friend  !  "  and 
Francesco  pitied  the  conscientious  servant  of  the  unworthy 
king. 

"  William  Farel  —  blessings  on  his  name  !  —  he  must 
soon  flee  the  city  —  " 

"Ami!" 

"  I  mean  all  I  have  said.  The  Duchesse  d'Alencon  is 
kind  and  true  ;  but  the  king  must  not  oppose  his  Holiness. 
Shall  I  say  aught  else?" 

"  Tell  me  all,  Ami.  Your  king  is  not  worthy  of  such 
suffering  as  you  bear  for  him." 


A    VIRTUOSO'S  STATESMANSHIP.  47 

"  Nay,  my  king  has  bad  advisers.  I  look  for  brighter 
days.  Astree  knows  the  schemes  of  Mme.  de  Chateau- 
briand. They  will  not  fail  at  present ;  but  afterward  a 
better  day  will  come.  Let  me  say  it,  Francesco.  Bourbon 
will  be  lost  to  France.  Cardinal  Wolsey  will  see  to  it, 
for  he  deceived  my  king  at  Calais.  Lautrec  cannot  hide 
under  the  love  of  the  king  for  his  sister ;  he  will  fall." 

"  Ami,  you  have  more  to  say.  Tell  me  all !  "  im- 
patiently begged  Francesco. 

"I  shall  be  faithful  to  my  king  and  friend.  Soon 
Francis  I.  will  find  a  stronger  foe  than  any  of  these.  But 
he  must  not  allow  Andrea  Doria  to  be  treated  contemp- 
tuously by  his  courtiers,  while  Henry  of  England  and  the 
Emperor  Charles  V.  are  -met  together  to  devise  against 
France." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Francesco,  who,  as  never  before,  saw 
that  the  king  was  becoming  weak  at  home,  and  that  the 
policies  of  Europe  were  massing  themselves  against  him. 
"Nay,"  added  he,  "but  why  do  you  speak  of  Admiral 
Andrea  Doria?  " 

A  message  from  the  king  was  just  then  placed  in  Ami's 
hand.  Soon  Astree  and  the  Duchesse  d'Alengon  joined 
him ;  and  with  the  pale  face  of  Francesco  still  in  his 
thought,  he  was  asked  into  the  presence  of  his  Majesty 
Francis  I.,  who  had  an  apology  to  make  to  the  young 
and  faithful  knight. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"AUREUS  LIBF.LLUS." 

Anglorum  rex  Henricus,  Leo  Decime,  mittit 
Hoc  opus  et  fidei  testetn  et  amicitiae. 

Vents  written  in  honor  of  Leo  X.  in  the  "  Assert  to." 

WH  \T  would  have  been  the  agitation  or  wilful 
stolidity  of  Ami,  the  French  knight,  if,  in  July, 
1521,  he  had  been  able  to  look  across  the  Channel  and 
see  Vian,  in  Windsor  Castle,  still  a  monk,  and  never 
so  much  an  Englishman  as  then,  assisting  his  sovereign 
Henry  VIII.  in  completing  a  book,  famous  before  it  was 
issued,  entitled  " Assertion  of  the  Seven  Sacraments. 
Against  Martin  Luther." 

Ami's  soul  was  being  ruled  by  a  phantom. 

Yian's  temper  of  mind  had  fitted  him  to  remain  long 
under  the  influence  of  Erasmus.  Never,  as  yet,  had  any 
of  the  elements  of  the  Reform  gained  access  to  his 
conscience.  He  had  been  kept  pure,  not  by  the  Church 
or  by  the  Reform,  but  by  the  vision  of  that  little  mate, 
now  so  nearly  the  dream  of  a  woman. 

Before  he  had  been  at  Hampton  Court  three  days,  he 
had  seen  a  letter  from  Erasmus,  who  asserted  that  he  had 
no  longer  any  friendship  for  Martin  Luther.  Greek 
literature  was  communicating  to  Vian  such  a  desire  for 
literary  reform,  that  he  even  wondered  why  he  had  been 
interested  at  all  in  the  German  monk.  Thomas  More's 


" AUREUS  LIBELLUSr  49 

oration  at  the  reception  of  Cardinal  Campeggio  as  papal 
legate,  had  been  repeated  to  him  ;  and  the  -  young  monk 
was  persuaded,  for  the  nonce  at  least,  that  if  the  Holy 
Church  went  by  the  board,  as  it  seemed  sure  to  do  if 
Lutheranism  prevailed,  that  kind  of  individual  opinion 
which  the  sub-prior  had  held  before  him  as  a  peril, 
would  produce  anarchy  everywhere.  At  least  it  appeared 
wise,  if  possible,  to  foster  the  movement  of  reform  only 
from  the  inside.  One  of  the  first  duties  was  the  destruc- 
tion of  Lutheranism.  Henry  VIII.  had  enlisted  himself; 
and  the  manuscript,  parts  of  which  were  two  years  of  age, 
needed  only  completion.  Great,  however,  as  was  Henry's 
scholarship  in  other  things,  Wolsey  was  anxious  that  in 
his  dealing  with  Luther's  "De  Captivitate  Babylonica," 
he  should  be  accurate  and  full  on  the  history  of  the 
sacraments.  He  had  therefore  exhorted  Vian  to  assist 
his  Majesty ;  and  the  king  had  said,  "  My  heart  is  quite 
gone  out  to  your  servant  Vian." 

When  Vian  objected  to  the  bitterness  of  the  king's 
expressions,  Wolsey  said  :  "  You  have  nothing  to  do  with 
his  coarseness.  Make  sure  that  his  Majesty  is  accurate 
with  history,  and  hasten  his  publication." 

Vian  often  hesitated ;  nay,  he  even  attempted  to  dis- 
suade his  Majesty  from  issuing  such  an  attack.  Wolsey 
then  called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  since  1518 
Pace,  and  Wolsey  himself,  had  been  praising  the  incom- 
plete work.  Vian  grew  weary  of  Windsor  Castle,  and 
intimated  that  the  court  overestimated  the  force  of 
Luther's  volume,  to  which  there  was  one  reply.  Tunstall 
would  cry  out  again  :  "  I  pray  God  keep  Luther's  book 
from  Englishmen.  There  is  much  strong  opinion  in  it." 
At  length  Vian  urged  that  England's  sovereign  should  not 
so  bemean  himself  as  to  bandy  epithets  with  a  belligerent 
monk.  Then  did  the  king  himself  tell  him  that  he  had 
already  written  to  hir,  Holiness  about  the  matter,  and  had 
made  large  promises.  At  last  Vian  was  silenced,  and  in 
VOL.  ii.  — 4 


50  A/O.YA'  AXD  KNIGHT. 

the  course  of  the  trial  of  Buckingham,  he  labored  care- 
fully upon  the  new  book. 

August  25th  came,  and  it  was  finished.  A  copy  covered 
with  cloth  of  gold,  and  signed  by  Henry  VIII.  was  soon 
in  the  Pope's  hands ;  and  even  Vian  was  happy  to  have 
done  something  toward  bringing  it  forth,  when  the  mes- 
senger returned  from  Rome  to  tell  the  court  how  he 
kneeled  before  his  I  lolmess  and  spoke  to  him  eloquently  ; 
how  the  Pope  sat  with  his  bishops,  amid  quadrants  and 
elegant  cloths,  looking  pleasantly  upon  him  ;  how  he  was 
lovingly  asked  to  kiss  the  cheeks  of  Leo  X. ;  how  the 
head  of  the  Church  praised  Henry  VIII.,  and  how  he 
desired  five  copies  of  so  powerful  an  antidote  to  the 
poisons  of  "the  monster,  Martin  Luther." 

Vian  meditated  on  the  word  "  monster."  It  seemed 
entirely  unnecessary  to  this  monk,  whose  literary  refine- 
ment had  become  so  Hellenic,  for  even  a  pope,  especially 
for  so  cultivated  an  hierarch  as  Leo  X.,  who  was  at  that 
time  pontiff,  to  use  so  big  a  word  for  one  whom  they 
all  held  to  be  so  contemptible.  "At  least  the  whole 
army  of  popes  and  kings  fear  him,"  thought  he  ;  and  Vian 
foresaw  that  Luther  would  surely  make  answer  to 
Henry  VIII. 

But  Leo  X.  was  never  to  be  disturbed  with  a  rejoinder 
which  quite  equalled  the  attack  of  Henry  VIII.  in  its 
violence.  That  characteristic  of  this  rejoinder  was  suf- 
ficient to  one  who,  like  Vian,  was  under  the  flattering 
dominion  of  fancied  refinement,  to  make  him  entirely 
forgetful  of  the  value  of  Luther's  rough  temperament,  and 
the  nature  of  the  gigantic  blasphemies  which  he  was  to 
overcome  ;  and  so  this  dignified  monk  and  courtier  at 
the  time  of  the  appearance  of  Luther's  rejoinder  con- 
tented his  fastidious  taste  with  the  reflection  that  he  had 
helped  to  wake  up  a  barbarian.  Luther's  book  appeared 
from  Wittenberg,  July,  1522.  Ix?o  X.  had  died  on 
December  2  in  the  previous  year. 


^AUREUS  LIBELLUS."  51 

"At  last,"  remarked  Vian  to  Giovanni,  who  often 
visited  him  at  times  when  the  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  was 
in  attendance  upon  Parliament,  or  when  his  lordship  had 
occasion  to  consult,  through  another,  the  cardinal  or  the 
crown,  —  "  at  last  my  Lord  Cardinal  has  the  tiara  in  his 
grasp." 

"  Nothing  is  more  improbable  than  his  ever  obtaining 
it,"  exclaimed  Giovanni,  sharply. 

Vian  could  not  understand  the  violent  asseveration  of 
his  old  friend,  save  that  it  proceeded  from  an  Italian. 
"  Surely  Wolsey  is  the  man  for  Supreme  Pontiff,"  thought 
he.  The  monk  had  found  in  Wolsey  no  serious  opposi- 
tion to  that  state  of  agnostic  indifference  into  which  his 
own  mind  had  fallen  as  to  matters  theological. 

Of  his  great  ability  no  man  had  doubt,  —  least  of  all 
men,  Vian.  He  had  been  attached  to  Wolsey  as  to 
none  other,  for  Wolsey  was  the  one  Englishman  who  had 
already  set  to  work  to  make  England  a  first-class  power. 

"  Certainly  the  cardinal  is  luxurious  enough,"  said  he. 

"  He  surpasses  any  pope  in  pomp,"  agreed  Giovanni. 

"  He  is  favorable  to  our  learning  and  philosophy," 
asserted  Vian,  with  the  self-confidence  of  the  English 
Renaissance. 

"  Entirely  so,  at  present,"  replied  Giovanni.  "  But  he 
will  not  be  Pope.  He  has  done  as  much  as  Luther  may 
do,  to  destroy  the  awe  with  which  the  world  has  looked 
upon  the  papal  chair,  and  —  " 

"How  can  it  be?     Cardinal  Wolsey  is  not  heretical." 

"  But  he  is  powerful.  Freshly  grown  power  is  always 
heresy  in  the  presence  of  ancient  power  which  has 
become  weakness,  Vian,"  said  Giovanni.  "  Thomas 
Wolsey  has  posted  no  propositions  on  the  cathedral  at 
Wittenberg,  has  burned  no  papal  bull,  has  defied  no 
Diet  at  Worms ;  but  he  might  as  well  have  done  these. 
He  has  made  himself  and  Whitehall,  in  the  room  of  the 
Pope  and  St.  Peter's,  the  dictators  of  Europe.  He  has 


52  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

taken  the  place  of  Gregory  VII.,  and  has  ruled,  while  the 
rest  of  the  rulers  were  at  one  another's  ears.  Not  a  king 
or  emperor,  for  the  last  five  years,  has  known  what  he 
wanted  to  do  until  Wolsey  was  consulted.  He  has  not 
listened  when  the  Pope  has  quoted  councils  and  repeated 
texts;  neither  did  Luther.  The  papal  see  is  not  of 
essential  supremacy  any  longer.  The  power  of  two 
energetic  intellects  has  overshadowed  it.  Wolsey  is  the 
Luther  of  politics ;  Luther  is  the  Wolsey  of  ecclesiastics. 
You  do  not  understand  me?  You  are  going  to  Rome, 
Vian ;  you  will  understand  me  at  Rome." 

Of  one  thing  Vian  was  sure,  —  he  had  a  growing  ad- 
miration for  the  powerful  cardinal,  and  wanted  to  see 
him  pope.  Naturally  enough,  the  very  influence  which 
at  one  time  threatened  to  make  Vian  a  contemner  of 
things  papistical,  now  conspired  with  others  to  make  him 
restless  to  behold  Wolsey  in  the  papal  chair.  That  in- 
fluence was  none  other  than  John  Wycliffe.  Vapor  in 
some  atmospheres  becomes  rain  ;  in  others,  snow. 

Out  of  one  of  those  Wycliffe  letters,  out  of  the  whole 
story  of  his  life,  Vian  had  obtained  a  vivid  conception  of 
the  rights,  privileges,  and  spirit  of  England,  as  a  political 
institution,  which  made  him  an  intense  Englishman. 
Wycliffe  had  vindicated  England  against  a  dictator  who 
lived  in  Italy,  —  so  it  seemed  to  Vian,  —  when  Urban  was 
made  to  yield  in  1366.  All  the  workings  of  Wycliffe's 
mind  at  that  hour  were  exposed  in  the  packet  of  his 
letters  which  Vian's  father  had  left  to  him.  With  these 
he  had  thoroughly  sympathized,  as  he  had  stolen  glances 
at  them  at  Glastonbury,  and  reflected  upon  their  signifi- 
cance while  he  had  been  living  with  cardinal  and  king. 
This  Wycliffite  ideal  of  the  rights  and  prerogatives  of 
England  was  entering  into  the  warm  stream  of  his  ad- 
miration for  Wolsey ;  and  as  the  cardinal  had  become 
the  typical  self-respectful  Englishman,  that  stream  of  ad- 
miration would  have  carried  him  to  the  papal  throne. 


"  AUREUS  LIBELLUS*  53 

Vian  did  not  suspect  that  this  same  Wycliffite  ardor 
for  England  might,  in  circumstances  which  could  arise 
when  England's  king  should  find  a  grievance  against  a 
pope,  create  a  sort  of  patriotism  which  would  leave  Eng- 
land popeless,  except  for  the  presence  of  a  king  who 
would  serve  as  both  sovereign  political  and  sovereign  ec- 
clesiastical. "  Cardinal  Wolsey  is  the  self-sufficient  Eng- 
lishman, —  he  is  the  England  which  I  love.  Let  him  be 
the  Holy  Father."  This  was  as  far  as  the  impulse  had 
gone  at  this  time  with  Vian,  in  declaring  itself.  He  ven- 
tured to  say  only  this  to  the  old  man,  in  spite  of  his  as- 
surances of  defeat,  the  eyes  of  the  younger  monk  resting 
meanwhile  upon  an  interesting  letter  from  Clerk,  then 
the  ambassador  at  Rome,  —  a  letter  which  lay  topmost 
with  many  other  papers  of  the  cardinal,  and  which  con- 
tained these  words :  — 

"  Every  man  here  beginneth  to  shift  for  himself,  because 
of  such  garboyle  and  business  as  out  of  all  order  is  like  to  be 
committed  here  in  this  city,  until  such  time  as  we  be  provided 
with  another  pope.  I  beseech  Almighty  God  send  us  one  to 
His  pleasure." 

"The  Opifex  Deus!"  said  the  sly  old  child  of  the 
Renaissance,  who  through  his  cynical  paganism  had  ob- 
served the  religiosity  of  the  ambassador's  epistle.  "  He 
has  had  very  little  to  do  with  finding  Saint  Peter's  suc- 
cessors in  the  past.  Let  us  trust,  Vian,  that  in  this  case 
the  cloud-compelling  Jove  may  have  more  influence  at 
Rome." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   ETERNAL   CITY. 

*  A  universal  tumult,  then  a  hush 
Worse  than  the  tumult,  —  all  eyes  straining  down 
To  the  arena's  pit,  all  lips  set  close, 
All  muscles  strained,  —  and  then  that  sudden  yell, 
Habct  '  —  That 's  Rome,  says  Lucius  :  so  it  is  ! 
That  is,  't  is  kts  Rome,  —  *t  is  not  yours  and  mine." 

IT  is  Rome,  Jan.  8,  1522.  Near  the  wall  of  the 
Borgo,  half-way  between  the  Janiculum  and  the 
Vatican  stood  Vian  ;  and  looking  straight  into  his  eyes 
was  a  Neapolitan  trooper,  who  insisted  upon  knowing 
the  business  of  the  former  in  Rome  at  that  time.  Clerk, 
the  ambassador  of  Henry  VIII..  had  already  given  up 
hope  of  making  Vian's  person  safe  in  the  Eternal  City. 
Possessing  nothing  of  Vian's  enthusiasm  for  Trajan's  Pil- 
lar or  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Bacchus,  and  caring 
even  less  for  the  Coliseum  than  for  his  luxurious  couch 
in  the  palace,  he  did  not  understand  the  obvious  reck- 
lessness with  which  Wolsey's  young  friend  pushed  his 
way  about,  through  a  city  which  was  thronged  with  Span- 
iards, beneath  whose  glittering  garments  hid  daggers  for 
any  who  might  be  suspected  of  opposition  to  the  will  of 
Charles  V.,  and  with  Neapolitan  troopers  who  ravaged 
by  day  and  slept  at  night  in  the  galleys  with  which  Civita 
Vecchia  was  crowded. 


THE   ETERNAL   CITY.  55 

"  An  Englishman  ! "  exclaimed'  the  trooper,  with  a 
dash  of  petulance.  "  The  election  had  been  over  long 
ago,  had  your  cardinal  not  thrown  an  hundred  thousand 
ducats  in  the  scale." 

"  My  cardinal  ?"  observed  the  frightened  monk,  whose 
outer  garment  was  a  thin  cloak  guarded  with  lace,  whose 
rich  material  contrasted  strongly  with  the  thick  birrus 
worn  by  the  servant  at  his  side,  and  whose  pearl-sown 
edge  revealed,  as  it  fell  backward,  a  girdle  exquisitely 
barred  of  silk  and  gold,  and  a  doublet  of  satin,  whose 
aiglets  of  silver  shone  almost  as  brightly  as  did  the  clasp 
of  gold  which  fastened  it,  in  which  gleamed  two  gems. 

"  Indeed  !  You  know  how  things  are  to  issue  yonder, 
do  you?  "  said  the  Neapolitan,  pointing  to  the  Basilica. 

"  I  am  not  the  less  an  Englishman,"  retorted  Vian. 

"And  a  brave  fellow,  in  no  mischief  as  I  can  see," 
said  the  other,  charmed  with  the  courageous  frankness  of 
the  stranger.  "  Dismiss  your  servant !  I  will  give  him 
my  blade  as  a  surety  for  you ;  and  we  will  betake  us  to 
the  Arch  of  Titus,  for  which  I  heard  you  making  in- 
quiry a  short  time  since." 

True,  the  Neapolitan,  who  was  one  of  the  army  which 
Don  Manuel  the  Spanish  ambassador  had  ordered  from 
Naples  on  learning  that  Leo  X.  was  dead,  had  been  fol- 
lowing the  footsteps  of  Vian  for  many  hours.  Every 
syllable  which  the  Englishman  had  uttered  was  treasured 
in  the  Italian's  heart.  But  luckily,  Vian  had  said 
nothing  of  popes,  conclaves,  or  kings.  Instead,  he  had 
been  garrulous  with  his  servant  about  classical  manners 
and  Roman  literature,  —  the  old  Italy  which  Vian  as- 
sured the  ignorant  man  was  superior  in  every  way  to 
that  of  their  poor,  degenerate  day.  The  trooper  who 
had  been  set  to  the  graceless  task  of  apprehending  con- 
spirators against  the  will  of  Charles  V.,  —  a  sovereign 
whom  he  abhorred, — was  weary  of  listening  to  this 
rumor  and  that,  which  had  proceeded  from  the  Basilica 


56  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

or  from  the  brain  of  a  madman.  The  conclave  had  now 
been  in  session  for  thirteen  days ;  and  infinitely  perplex- 
ing had  been  the  reports  of  conspiracies,  briberies,  frauds, 
and  farces.  Tired  soldiers,  who  a  fortnight  before  had 
begun  to  watch  for  foes  with  proud  interest,  now  cared 
not  whether  Colonna  de*  Medici  or  Farnese  was  to  be 
triumphant ;  and  this  trooper,  who  was  himself  a  hapless 
man  of  letters,  pursuing  the  trade  of  a  soldier  that  he 
might  find  bread,  was  fascinated  at  once  with  an  English- 
man of  such  evident  rank,  who  cared  for  the  ancient  Rome 
when  she  was  so  illy  represented  by  her  vulgar  successor, 
and  so  overwhelmed  by  soldiers  and  ecclesiastics.  Vian, 
quite  as  delighted  as  was  the  Italian  with  his  new  ac- 
quaintance, immediately  dismissed  his  servant,  and  soon 
they  were  standing  under  the  Arch  of  Titus. 

>u  are  living  in  the  Rome  of  the  Forum,  not  in  the 
Rome  of  the  Vatican,"  observed  the  soldier,  who  went 
on  to  utter  sentiments  which  expressed  themselves  as 
though  they  had  been  delayed  many  days.  "  It  is,  as 
you  explained  to  that  slave  of  yours,  the  greater  and 
truer  Rome.  I  myself  have  written  some  verses  upon  the 
theme,  and  I  fancy  that  when  you  have  gone  back  to 
England  you  will  hunt  up  the  roads  of  Caesar,  which 
must  yet  be  discoverable  in  Britain,  while  priests  and 
kings  wait  for  the  newly  elected  pope  to  die,  and  while 
they  wait  conspire  for  the  new  wearer  of  the  tiara.  The 
only  truly  modern  world,  after  all,  is  the  ancient  world ; 
and  I  am  right  glad  to  find  an  Englishman  who  at  this 
moment  might  be  dozing  in  the  palace  within  reach  of 
the  late  pontiffs  wines,  straying  away  to  look  up  the 
laurel  of  Daphne.  Have  you  ever  loved  ?  " 

"  I,"  hesitated  Vian,  —  "I  have  had  a  dream,  —  that 
is,  a  vision  or  —  " 

*  \\*ell,  dream,  vision,  or  actual  love-affair,  —  it  is  all  the 
same  here  in  Rome.  The  more  visonary  the  vision, 
the  more  real  it  is ;  and  the  more  actual  your  love-affair, 


THE  ETERNAL   CITY.  57 

the  more  certainly  will  it  turn  out  to  have  been  a  dream. 
Why  do  I  ask  you?  For  the  reason  that  I  suspected 
it ;  no  one  will  expose  himself  to  robbers  and  soldiers, 
as  you  have  done  in  Rome,  without  having  on  hand  a 
love-affair,  either  with  some  woman  or  with  the  ancient 
city  herself.  You  are  really  love-stricken.  I  could 
discern  as  much,  when  first,  ten  days  ago,  I  followed 
you  to  the  shrine  of  Apollo.  But  you  are  under  the 
Greek  god  of  love,  Eros." 

"  I  myself  am  a  Pythagorean,"  said  Vian. 

The  trooper  exclaimed  :  "  A  Pythagorean  !  There  can 
be  no  love  of  woman  in  you  !  You  must  vent  your  rap- 
tures on  something  whose  soul  has  not  transmigrated 
downward.  The  Eternal  City  will  suffice.  Even  your 
dream  of  love  —  and  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  about  it 
—  will  vanish  before  the  Pythagorean  view  of  things.  I 
had  a  friend,  —  a  Pythagorean  ;  and  Rome  was  his  dwell- 
ing-place. But  he  really  lived  in  a  world  of  old  friends. 
He  himself — so  his  philosophy  taught  him  —  had  been 
a  friend  of  the  ancient  poet  Martial ;  and  most  of  Mar- 
tial's epigrams,  especially  the  less  decent,  were  on  his 
tongue.  He  often  explained  to  me  why  Martial,  if  he 
had  passed  through  less  than  three  transmigrations, — 
that  is,  if  he  had  been  born  but  twice,  —  would  appear, 
not  as  a  rhymester,  but  as  a  writer  of  prose.  Such  was  his 
life  at  Rome  that  my  friend,  who  in  his  other  life  had 
bandied  witticisms  with  him,  easily  worked  it  out,  with 
the  aid  of  his  Pythagorean  charts  which  he  himself  made 
at  that  time  and  now  remembers'  perfectly  well,  that 
Martial  would  reappear  as  a  literary  vagabond,  learned 
enough  and  more  humorous,  as  also  he  would  be  more 
licentious  than  ever.  Hist !  "  —  and  the  trooper  pointed 
to  a  figure  partially  wrapped  up  in  a  faded  and  torn 
doctor's  gown,  his  hair  illy  hidden  by  a  worn  cap. 
Bright  eyes,  full  of  laughter  and  scorching  irony,  were 
glistening  upon  the  path  which  he  was  treading,  and 


58  J/O.VA"  A. YD   KNIGHT. 

which  led  toward  the  Coliseum.  "  Hist ! "  said  the 
Neapolitan,  "  there  he  is  even  now  !  " 

"  Your  friend  who  knew  Martial  the  poet  in  the  other 
life?" 

"  No  !  Hist !  It  is  Martial  himself,  or  rather,  Martial 
as  he  lives  now  in  pontifical  Rome.  Oh,  your  Pythago- 
reanism  would  have  confounded  Minerva  herself !  Look 
at  him  !  It  is  Martial  as  we  see  him  now,  —  so  my 
friend  has  told  me." 

••  Why,"  observed  Vian,  who  had  been  favored  with 
an  hour  on  the  day  before  with  the  most  characteristic 
man  of  the  Renaissance  of  ancient  Rome,  —  "  why,  that 
is  the  physician,  Dr.  Francois  Rabelais  !  " 

"  The  same,  the  same  !  "  answered  the  Neapolitan. 
"  Martial,  —  Rabelais  !  Ah,  sir,  you  Pythagoreans  live 
in  a  strange  world.  See  !  he  is  going  to  the  Coliseum. 
Let  us  follow,  after  a  while.  Meantime,"  pursued  the 
trooper,  who  appeared  entirely  inattentive  to  the  fact  that 
the  English  Pythagorean  was  attempting  to  solve  the 
problem  of  Martial's  metempsychosis,  "  let  us  talk  on  this 
matter  of  love  for  old  Rome,  which  by  the  way  is  almost  the 
only  kind  of  love  that  monks  can  indulge  in  without  an 
indulgence  from  the  Pope  —  Oh,  you  must  not  smile  at 
indulgences  !  St.  Peter's  had  to  be  finished  and  orna- 
mented ;  therefore  his  Holiness  had  to  have  money ; 
therefore  he  had  to  offer  indulgences  for  sale ;  therefore 
St.  Peter's  is  glorified  on  the  debauchery  of  Europe  !  " 

"  I  perceive  that  you  are  heretical,"  broke  in  Vian. 

"  Well,  I  prefer  Caesar's  Rome  to  Leo's  Rome,"  replied 
the  trooper,  "  and  you  are  in  love  with  the  same  ghost." 

"That  is  not  my  vision."  Vian  remembered  the 
dream  of  Lutterworth,  Glastonbury,  Whitehall,  Rome,  — 
for  it  had  returned  to  him  on  the  night  before ;  and  his 
lips  moved  with  the  whisper,  "  Dear  little  mate  !  "  Then 
he  saw  her  as  a  woman. 

•   \o,  perhaps  not;  but  being  a  monk,  —  I  saw  you 


THE  ETERNAL    CITY.  59 

take  the  crucifix  from  your  breast  as  you  stood  in  the 
great  vault,  —  being  a  monk,  as  t  said,  and  a  Pythagorean, 
you  have  had  to  banish  actual  womankind  out  of  your  life 
and  philosophy,  and  being  a  scholar  as  I  see,  you  have 
fallen  in  love  with  the  Eternal  City.  Well,  she  is  in  a  sad 
plight ;  but  if  you  really  love  old  Rome,  you  will  disasso- 
ciate her  in  your  mind  from  her  unfortunate  circum- 
stances. She  lies,  after  being  half  breathless  for  many 
centuries,  still  alive  under  all  the  rags  of  her  own  former 
clothing.  Basilicse,  statues,  manuscripts,  and  arms,  gems 
which  she  wore,  lie  tossed  about  from  this  cold  portion 
of  her  still  heaving  breast  to  that ;  and  now  those  who 
for  two  hundred  years  have  caught  a  whisper  from  her 
lips,  or  felt  beneath  the  enwrapped  loveliness  of  her  form 
a  heart  beat,  have  been  finding  beneath  the  long  silken 
tresses  of  her  hair,  the  gracefulness  of  her  strong  arm, 
even  the  voluptuous  splendor  of  her  glorious  eye.  This 
gang  of  cardinals  and  princes  —  the  ambassadors  of  all 
Europe  gathered  here  to  quarrel  and  perhaps  choose  a 
head  for  Christendom  —  do  not  reflect  that  the  gorgeous 
ceremonial  of  the  Church,  the  place  which  the  papal 
chair  occupies  in  the  human  mind,  many  of  the  doctrines 
of  the  councils  and  much  of  their  power,  are  but  frag- 
ments of  the  old  clothes  of  this  ancient  political  Rome, 
painted  and  laced  by  the  ecclesiastical  spirit  which  the 
Christian  religion  infused  into  the  human  soul.  Your 
'  Ave  Maria  '  is  in  Latin,  —  the  language  of  the  sibyl  of 
Cumae.  Even  your  Pope  is  Caesar  Imperator.  The 
capital  of  the  Church  was  the  old  capital  of  the  State. 
Rome  is  still  the  world's  centre.  Still  the  dream  of  uni- 
versal empire  floats  over  these  seven  hills,  and  nowhere 
else.  You  have  studied  the  doctrines?  Well,  the  old 
Roman  prayed  for  the  dead  who  had  neglected  the  gods 
of  the  Capitoline  Hill.  Candlemas  is  not  more  devoted 
to  light  than  was  the  older  festival  of  Lupercal.  The 
nun  is  the  Vestal  Virgin.  She  is  yet  buried  alive.  The 


60  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Holy  Virgin  was  enthroaed  in  Diana's  city,  Ephesus,  foi 
the  same  reason  that  the  Pope,  Caesar's  successor  in  the 
human  imagination,  was  and  is  enthroned  in  Rome. 
You  will  see  torches  wave  there,  when  this  election  is 
done,  as  they  once  waved  when  Caesar  mounted  the 
throne.  The  Pope  began  as  papa,  as  you  say ;  now  he 
is  the  sole  Prince  over  nations.  Caesar  has  come  again. 
The  festival  of  the  resurrection  occurs  when  the  spring- 
time tempts  the  corn.  The  Virgin  began  as  a  woman 
who  had  borne  a  son ;  she  is  now  the  Queen  of  Heaven. 
Oh,  I  know  you  must  go  back  to  England  in  love  with 
old  Rome  ! " 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  Coliseum.  Vian 
was  conscious  that  he  occupied  an  anomalous  position. 
even  to  his  own  mind.  Here  he  was  a  servant  of  his 
Lord  Cardinal  Wolsey,  anxious  to  see  him  made  pope, 
perfectly  certain  that  he  had  been  a  defeated  candidate 
from  the  first.  Vian  was  trying  to  hold  to  the  Rome  of 
the  Holy  Father  in  1522,  while  he  was  in  love  with  the 
old  Rome  of  pre-papal  days. 

At  the  conclave  they  had  seen  an  illustration  of  the 
truth  which  the  Neapolitan  had  been  speaking.  Vian 
had  beheld  it,  as  they  passed  the  filthy  huts  which  he 
saw  were  builded  of  fragments  of  marble  porticos  and 
decorated  by  entablatures  from  the  peristyle.  Cattle  had 
looked  out  upon  him  from  beneath  roofs  which  overhung 
broken  columns  of  exquisite  workmanship,  and  slabs  on 
whose  immaculate  strength  beauty  had  dwelt  for  seven- 
teen centuries.  As  they  stood  with  that  ignorant  com- 
placency with  which  a  fat  monk  repeated  his  "  Ave  "  or 
meditated  upon  the  victory  of  Constantine,  a  horse, 
which  might  have  been  only  a  very  remote  and  badly 
descended  son  of  one  of  Caesar's  war-horses,  was  tied  to 
a  statue  of  the  beautiful  Apollo ;  and  the  beggars  were 
exhibiting  their  sores,  as  they  sat  on  bits  of  cornice  which 
had  once  helped  to  support  a  graceful  arch  upon  which 


THE  ETERNAL   CITY.  6 1 

Horace  and  Augustus  had  gazed.  Never  had  Vian  been 
so  sure  of  the  composite  character  of  the  faith  for  which 
he  stood.  With  one  mighty  effort,  he  still  could  compel 
himself  to  say,  — 

"  And  yet  the  one  vitalizing  fact  which  prevented  bar- 
barism from  ruining  this  old  Rome  entirely,  and  has 
brought  down  to  this  day  a  stream  of  civilizing  influ- 
ence, is  the  Holy  Catholic  Church.  Long  live  the 
Pope!" 

The  cool  air  came  not  unpleasantly  from  snow-crowned 
Soracte,  fanning  into  motion  the  light  edges  of  that 
growth  of  moss  which  far  above  the  head  of  Vian  clung 
to  the  enormous  ruin,  and  driving  into  one  of  the  cellars 
the  wretches  who  besought  strangers  for  an  alms.  The 
broken  beams  of  light  lingered  upon  the  sharp  cor- 
ners of  the  ruined  Forum  and  Capitol,  toward  which 
Vian  looked,  his  eyes  resting  upon  the  spot  where  now, 
sixteen  centuries  after  the  last  dance  of  the  Muses,  the 
followers  of  a  peasant  were  selecting  his  Vicar. 

The  Coliseum  and  St.  Peter's,  —  he  was  about  com- 
paring them  for  a  moment,  when  the  Neapolitan  and 
Dr.  Francois  Rabelais  engaged  him  in  conversation. 

"  They  are  electing  a  pope  yonder,"  said  the  witty 
physician,  pointing  to  the  domeless  building  in  front  of 
which  was  a  huge  scaffolding  devised  by  Bramante ;  "  and 
I  have  just  written  a  dissertation  on  lettuces." 

"Why  did  you  not  write  on  the  authority  of  the 
Pope?"  asked  the  Neapolitan. 

"  Because  the  authority  of  his  Holiness  is  long  ago 
spoiled.  I  wanted  a  fresh  topic.  Aha  !  lettuces  are  the 
only  fresh  things  in  Rome,"  answered  the  great  wit. 

"  Here,"  observed  the  trooper,  who  was  not  unpleas- 
antly jocose  nor  too  familiar  with  Vian's  name,  "  here  is 
an  Englishman,  a  Pythagorean,  and  a  —  " 

"  A  friend  of  Thomas  Wolsey  also,  I  suppose,  eh  —  " 

"  One  who  is  to  be  disappointed,  I  fear,"  said  Vian. 


62  .!/(>. VA-  ,l.\7)   KXICIIT. 

'•  Ah  !  I  am  not  disappointed  with  popes  when  I  exam- 
ine their  pedigrees  and  count  their  children." 

Rabelais  had  not  yet  been  asked  by  the  Bishop  of  Mail- 
to  find  out  whether  Farnese  was  the  lawful  son  of  a 
somewhat  dissipated  pope ;  but  his  mind  was  sufficiently 
full  of  such  information  concerning  the  Churchmen  of  the 
in  ike  him  very  loquacious  whenever  the  topic  of 
reform  was  introduced.     Rabelais  has  left  many  testimo- 
is  to  his  cleverness  in  understanding  the  real  force 
of  the  Lutheran  movement ;  and  young  as  he  was  at  that 
time,  his  conversation  possessed  many  of  the  witticisms 
which  afterward  sparkled  on  his  pa.ue.      He  was  not  long 
in  finding  out  that  Vian  had   held  warm  relationships  to 
what  was   known    in    England  as  "  the  new  learning." 
He  saw  the  anomaly,  — this  engaging  youth,  stirred  with 
the  Renaissance  and  stolid  against  the  Reformation,  look- 
ixiously  every  now  and  then  in  the  direction  of  the 
conclave.      Rabelais  soon  discerned    that   Vian's    refined 
objections  to  Luther  and  a  great  popular  revolt  against 
ecclesiastical  Rome  were  founded  upon  exactly  the  same 
ideas  and  fears  which  had  taken  the  warlike  tone  from 
Erasmus,  and  had  made  Thomas  More  timid. 

The  three  —  Vian,  the  trooper  of  Naples,  Rabelais  — 
sat  together  in  the  chilly  air.  The  awful  masses  of  stone 
overshadowed  them,  until  the  sun,  finding  openings  through 
the  arches  and  between  the  columns,  gathered  out  of  an 
unclouded  sky  sufficient  warmth  to  make  their  corner  in 
the  broken  amphitheatre  fairly  comfortable.  Rabelais  had 
already  begun  to  spin  for  them  the  story  of  Pantagruel  and 
Gargantua,  with  which  the  reader  is  familiar.  Vian  had 
been  musing  upon  the  vast  audiences  of  the  past,  as  his 
eye  wandered  up  and  down  the  stony  flights  of  steps 
which  burdened  the  huge  pedestals.  His  soul  was  back 
again  with  Nero,  as  yonder  the  emperor  walked  in  his 
gardens  with  Acte,  when  Vian  recalled  the  epigram  of 
Martial,  and  he  thought, — 


THE  ETERNAL    CITY.  63 

"  Why,  Martial  is  here,  talking  at  my  side  !  " 
There  was  no  mistaking  him,     Rabelais  !  —  Martial !  — 
it  was  confusing ;  but  Rabelais  was  sketching  the  future  of 
the  Reform.     He  had  reached  this  part  of  his  story  :  — 

"Whereupon  Gargantua,  fearful  lest  the  child  should 
hurt  himself,  caused  four  great  chains  of  iron  to  be  made 
to  bind  him,  and  so  many  strong  wooden  arches  unto  his 
cradle  most  firmly  stacked  and  mortised  in  huge  frames. 
Thus  continued  Pantagruel  for  a  while,  very  calm  and 
quiet,  for  he  was  not  able  so  easily  to  break  those  chains, 
especially  having  no  room  in  the  cradle  to  give  a  swing 
with  his  arms.  But  see  what  happened  once  on  a  great 
holiday,  that  his  father  Gargantua  made  a  sumptuous 
banquet  to  all  the  princes  of  nis  court.  Hark  what  he 
did,  good  people  !  He  strove  and  essayed  to  break  the 
chains  of  the  cradle  with  his  arms,  but  could  not,  for  they 
were  too  strong  for  him.  Then  did  he  keep  with  his 
feet  such  a  stamping  and  so  long  that  at  last  he  beat  out 
the  lower  end  of  his  cradle,  which  notwithstanding  was 
made  of  a  great  post  five  feet  square ;  and  as  soon  as  he 
had  gotten  out  his  feet,  he  slid  down  as  well  as  he  could 
till  he  had  got  his  soles  to  the  ground,  and  then  with  a1 
mighty  force  he  rose  up,  carrying  his  cradle  upon  his 
back,  like  a  tortoise  that  crawls  up  against  a  wall.  In 
this  manner  he  entered  into  the  great  hall  where  they 
were  banqueting,  and  that  very  boldly,  and  did  much 
affright  the  company ;  yet,  because  his  arms  were  tied  in, 
he  could  not  reach  anything  to  eat,  but  with  great  pain 
stooped  now  and  then  a  little  to  take,  with  the  whole  flat 
of  his  tongue,  some  good  lick,  good  bit,  or  morsel. 
Which,  when  his  father  saw,  he  saw  well  enough  that  they 
had  left  him  without  giving  him  anything  to  eat,  and  there- 
fore commanded  that  he  should  be  loosed  from  the  said 
chains.  When  he  was  unchained  they  made  him  sit 
down,  where,  after  he  had  fed  very  well,  he  took  his 
cradle  and  broke  it  into  more  than  five  hundred  thousand 


64 


MONK'  AND  KNIGHT. 


pieces  with  one  blow  of  his  fist,  swearing  he  would  never 
come  into  it  again." 

••  1'antagruel  is  the  Reformation!"  —  when  Rabelais 
had  concluded,  Vian  found  within  his  mind  this  ugly 
element  of  discord,  —  "  Pantagmel !  " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   NEW   POPE. 

In  times  of  decadence  power  always  searches  for  minds  of  a  niggardly 
temperament,  —  the  undecided,  and  above  all,  those  who  have  passed  their 
lives  in  a  sort  of  twilight.  —  EMILIO  CASTELAR. 

THE  Neapolitan  and  Rabelais  followed  the  English 
monk  as  he  walked  across  the  space  and  began 
to  climb  the  steps. 

"The  future  climbing  upon  the  past  !  "  said  the  wit. 

"Yonder,"  said  the  soldier,  pointing  far  through  a 
giant  arch  toward  St.  Peter's  imagined  dome,  —  "  yonder 
is  the  present!  Let  him  rejoice  in ^ its  grandeur  while 
he  may." 

Vian  now  stood  upon  the  loftiest  step,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  space  which  had  been  crowded  at  one 
time  by  nearly  one  hundred  thousand  Romans ;  then, 
without  straining  his  gaze,  his  eye  found  in  his  own  fancy 
the  vast  dome  of  St.  Peter's.  Was  it  not  possible  to  lose 
sight  of  a  noisy  friar  of  Germany  in  the  magnificent  flood 
of  memories  which  Vian  saw  piling  up  on  the  Campagna, 
until  it  rushed  across  the  space  between,  and  struck  and 
swirled  with  a  still  more  solemn  sea  of  holy  hopes  and 
fears  which  came  sweeping  on  from  one  of  the  crosses 
that  glittered  in  the  purple  light?  The  ancient  Rome 
had  built  the  Coliseum  at  the  hour  when  the  old  Roman 
VOL.  n.  —  5 


66  JlfO.YA'  AXD   KXIGIIT. 

spirit  was  dying ;  the  mediaeval  Rome  had  built  St. 
Peter's  at  the  hour  when  the  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages 
mishing  !  Yian  did  not  dare  to  adopt  this  view  ; 
it  led  to  the  suspicion  that  modern  days  would  create  a 
fane  as  different  from  St.  Peter's  as  was  St.  Peter's  from 
the  Coliseum.  He  was,  however,  convinced  that  he  had 
not  the  mental  freedom  which  he  supposed  himself  to 
possess. 

Why  should  he  be  afraid  of  the  suspicion  that  great 
changes  were  to  come?  In  Wolsey's  presence  any  kind 
of  opinion  on  religion  had  hitherto  seemed  so  tolerable 
that  Yum  supposed  he  had  come  to  the  intellectual 
liberty  which  he  had  yearned  for  at  Glastonbury.  But 
now,  to  him,  standing  where  he  could  look  over  Roman 
arch  and  Christian  temple,  with  the  shout  of  the  multi- 
tude in  the  amphitheatre  mingling  in  his  soul  with  the 
whispers  of  the  cardinals  in  the  conclave,  it  was  evident 
that  a  human  soul  must  get  a  freedom  for  its  operations 
which  a  VVolsey  could  not  give  or  take  away,  if  the  soul 
would  realize  its  deMinv 

Awhile  ago  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  comparing 
oliseum  with  St.  Peter's,  —  their  memories,  their 
architecture,  their  renown,  their  significance.  That  mo- 
ment occurred  when  he  stood  beneath  the  arches  of  the 
one,  or  before  the  steps  leading  into  the  other.  He  was 
now  above  both  of  them,  and  his  feelings  suggested  the 
thoughts  that  the  human  soul  could  surmount  and  overawe 
its  own  creations  ;  that  in  such  moments  those  creatures 
attained  their  true  proportions ;  that  at  such  instants  the 
future  came  into  sight,  and  that  after  all  there  are  but 
two  great  powers  in  the  universe  which  have  to  do  with 
the  problems  of  mental  freedom  and  its  solution,  —  God 
and  the  human  soul. 

How  long  Vian  remained  upon  that  step  he  did  not 
know.  When  he  descended  Rabelais  smiled,  told  a 
humorous  tale  or  two,  and  the  three  set  out  for  the 


A    NEW  POPE.  67 

Capitol.  Vian  was  listening  while  they  chattered  of  the 
affairs  within  the  conclave.  The  wind  was  now  sighing 
through  the  plane-trees  and  laurels ;  and  the  scantily 
clad  Rabelais  was  glad  to  use  the  birrus  of  Vian's  servant, 
who  had  come  from  the  palace  with  a  message  to  Vian 
from  Clerk  the  ambassador. 

"  The  emperor  took  the  city  by  his  soldiers,  even 
before  the  Almighty  could  get  here  with  His  pious  cardi- 
nals," said  Rabelais,  as  they  aimlessly  wandered  in  front 
of  the  trenches  out  of  which  the  -workmen  of  Alexan- 
der VI.  had  brought  some  of  the  grotesques.  "  Some  of 
the  cardinals  do  not  look  like  children  of  Minerva  —  " 

"  Nor  of  Venus,"  added  the  Neapolitan,  "  though  I 
saw  one  of  the  least  beautifully  created  tumble  into  the 
ditch  at  Porto  d'Anza,  where  they  found  the  Apollo  of 
the  Belvedere." 

"  He  was  doubtless  a  beautiful  worshipper  of  Apollo  in 
the  other  life,  who  had  sinned,  and  therefore  had  been 
born  ugly  in  this  life,  but  was  yet  sufficiently  united  to 
his  past  to  find  the  place  of  the  image  of  Apollo,"  said 
Rabelais,  looking  at  Vian.  "  Poor  Antony,  who  doubt- 
less is  a  cardinal  in  this  life,  ought  to  be  apprehended 
where  Julius  found  the  statue  of  Cleopatra." 

Soon  they  had  reached  an  inn,  at  which  they  partook 
liberally  of  cakes  and  of  wine,  which  induced  plans  for 
another  series  of  visits  to  classical  places.  Between  the 
pillars  and  modern  churches,  sarcophagi  and  temples, 
they  talked  of  the  election  of  the  Pope. 

"  Every  cardinal  is  a  candidate,"  said  the  Nea- 
politan. 

"So  said  Don  Manuel,"  added  Vian;  "and  it  would 
seem  that  they  are  voting  on  one  name  at  a  time." 

"  Did  your  Lord  Cardinal  Wolsey  ever  really  expect 
the  papal  throne?"  asked  the  Neapolitan,  bluntly. 

Vian  was  somewhat  annoyed  at  the  question,  for  he 
had  learned  of  the  treachery  of  Charles  V.  It  would 


68  .1/(>_VA*  A.YD 


been    insulting    from    a    soldier   who    had    not   the 
Neapolitan's  hatred  for  the  emperor.     \  "km  answered: 

"  It  is  an  age  of  royal  liars." 

"  What  !  not  Henry  VIII.,  who  has  crushed  Luther  !  " 
exclaimed  Rabelais,  knowing  not  that  Vian  had  some- 
times looked  indifferently  upon  his  part  in  the  compo- 
sition of  Henry's  book,  especially  since  the  story  of 
1  \mtagruel. 

"  It  is  an  age  of  lying,"  said  he,  feeling  that  it  was 
a  safer  assertion  ;  "  and  the  chief  of  liars  is  Charles  V. 
He  promised  my  Lord  Cardinal  his  support  at  Bruges, 
and  repeated  it  through  the  ambassador,  the  Bishop  of 
Elna,  whom  I  left  speaking  to  his  Eminence  at  Hampton 
Com 

"  There  are  too  many  Churchmen  in  the  affair  for 
anybody  to  tell  the  truth,"  remarked  Rabelais. 

Vian  continued:  "Henry  VIII.  sent  his  ambassador 
to  the  emperor  to  learn  his  choice  —  " 

id,"  interrupted  the  Neapolitan,  who  seemed  to 
know  everything,  "  Henry  VIII.  also  sent  two  letters,  — 
one  in  favor  of  Wolsey,  to  be  used  if  he  shall  be  elected  ; 
and  another  in  favor  of  De'  Medici,  if  Wolsey  shall  fail." 

Vian  stoutly  denied  the  truth  of  this  statement  ;  but 
he  saw  that  the  Neapolitan  was  constant. 

Rabelais  simply  said,  "  His  Majesty  would  make  a  good 
pope." 

"  The  one  hundred  thousand  ducats  which  Wolsey  has 
offered  would  indicate  that  Henry  VIII.  is  ready  to  pay 
for  the  tiara  for  another,"  said  the  soldier,  with  an  im- 
plied assurance  that  some  one  in  the  conclave  had  been 
carrying  out  news  of  importance. 

It  troubled  Vian.  "  Every  precaution  has  been  taken 
against  such  as  you  knowing  too  much." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  laughed  the  Neapolitan  ;  "  the  army  of 
lords  and  prelates  stop  up  the  breathing-holes  —  " 

"The  Devil  will  get  in  anyhow,"  said  Rabelais. 


A  NEW  POPE.  69 

"The  platters  are  washed  over  and  over  again  when 
they  come  out ;  and  holy  noses  smell  about  the  meats 
which  enter  and  the  pots  which  return,  to  discover  a  syl- 
lable of  simony,  which  the  Pope's  bull  prevents,  or  to 
find  a  phrase  of  news  from  some  cardinal,  which  by  this 
time  any  of  them  is  too  weak  to  write.  You  "  —  looking 
into  the  calm  eyes  of  Vian,  —  "  you  saw  the  turning- 
wheel  which  was  invented,  by  which  their  food  is  deliv- 
ered. Not  even  a  cardinal  could  make  it  tell  a  tale." 

"This  is  the  thirteenth  day?"  inquired  Rabelais. 
"  Ah  !  they  have  had  but  one  kind  of  meat  for  several 
days.  Rabelais  !  thou  wouldst  make  a  good  choice  of 
popes,  for  thou  hast  gone  many  a  day  without  any  meat 
at  all;  but  in  these  days  hunger  is  not  piety." 

"  From  the  first  day,"  said  the  Neapolitan,  "  the  Car- 
dinal de'  Medici  was  hopeless  of  election.  Tokens  and 
signs  told  his  party  of  the  fact." 

"  Who  was  the  saint  carried  forth  from  the  conclave  a 
few  days  ago,  half  dead  from  foul  air?"  asked  Rabelais. 

"  Gremani." 

"  Lucky  dog  !  and  pious  cardinal  also,  I  doubt  not." 

"  Yes ;  everybody  within  the  conclave  is  tired,  suspi- 
cious. Why,  when  Farnese's  servant  asked  for  a  larger 
pot  of  wine,  they  cried, '  Oh,  it  is  a  secret  watchword,  — 
*  More  wine  ! '  " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Rabelais ;  "  that  has  been  the 
watchword  of  the  whole  series  of  conclaves  for  ages. 
The  Cardinal  of  Ivrea,  —  poor  old  fellow! — who  was 
taken  prisoner  on  his  way  hither,  must  have  wished  the 
captors  had  killed  him,  so  much  does  he  dislike  scarcity 
of  meat  and  wine." 

By  this  time  the  three  found  themselves  looking  into  a 
lime-pit  about  whose  edges  lay  broken  statues,  a  bust  of 
Mars,  and  innumerable  fragments  of  the  colonnade  of 
Minerva,  the  most  beautiful  blocks  of  which  had  been 
long  ago  converted  into  lime.  Vian  never  felt  him- 


7O  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

self  so    much  a  pagan;  and  his  mind  flew  at  once  to 

nni. 

Yian  felt  it  desirable  to  know  more  of  the  facts  with 
whirh  the  Neapolitan  seemed  perfectly  familiar  ;  and  say- 

rewell  to  Rabelais,  to  whom  he  gave  the  cloak,  and 
to  the  Neapolitan,  to  whom  he  gave  an  invitation  to  visit 
him  if  ever  he  should  betake  himself  to  Knghnd,  Yian 
was  soon  enjoying  himself  with  a  party  of  NVolsey's  friends. 
who  had  given  up  every  hope  of  the  advancement  of  the 
cardinal  if  Richard  Pace,  whom  now  they  anxiously  ex- 
pected, should  not  arrive  before  the  dawn  of  the  next 
day. 

January  9  had  come.  The  air  was  resonant  with  ru- 
mor. Vian's  imagination  had  been  stimulated  by  a  story 
full  of  circumstantial  accuracy,  which  he  overheard  while 
gazing  at  the  ruin  of  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  —  a  story 
which  led  him  to  believe  that  Leo  X.  had  been  poisoned. 
His  officer,  Paris  de  Grasis,  had  strangely  omitted  to 
care  for  the  late  Pope  in  his  sickness.  The  medical 
attendants  who  made  an  examination  were  certain  that 
his  Holiness  had  died  by  poison.  A  cup-bearer  had 
been  taken  to  the  castle  of  St.  Angelo.  Vian  could  see 
the  livid  and  swollen  corpse.  What  could  such  a  city 
and  such  a  conclave  do  toward  selecting  a  suitable 
successor  ? 

Soldiers  had  crowded  the  streets  since  the  day  of  Leo's 
death.  Cardinal  Volterra,  one  of  the  foremost  candi- 
dates, had  so  insisted  that  the  Imperialists  had  prejudiced 
the  issue  of  the  conclave  by  the  presence  of  Swiss  arms, 
that  a  thousand  foot  were  added  to  their  number  to  guard 
the  conclave.  The  city  thronged  about  the  Basilica  of 
St.  Peter.  It  angered  Vian  to  see  the  haughty  Impe- 
rialists, as  they  denied  every  rumor  which  pleased  the  Ro- 
man populace,  or  spit  upon  the  suggestion  which  once 
lifted  the  crowd  toward  the  window,  .that  Wolsey  had  won 


A   NEW  POPE.  71 

the  throne.  Vian  had  to  persuade  himself  that  probably  at 
no  time  had  Charles  V.  dreamed,  as  had  Wolsey,  of  the 
use  of  force  to  consummate  his  purposes ;  that  in  such  an 
event  the  outside  ward  was  held  by  stout  Roman  nobles, 
the  second  by  the  ambassadors,  the  third  by  the  prelates 
who  kept  the  keys  of  the  conclave. 

Reports  that  of  the  thirty-nine  who  had  gone  into  the 
conclave  singing  "Veni  Creator,"  not  one  was  now  strong 
enough  to  speak  at  length,  made  the  throng  which  surged 
up  against  the  Chapel  of  Sixtus  IV.,  demand  that  the  life 
of  this  cardinal  or  that  should  be  spared. 

"Colonna  sung  the  Mass,"  whispered  an  Italian,  whose 
belated  information  stirred  the  crowd  with  such  interest 
that  shouts  of  the  word  "  Colonna  "  gave  to  the  multitude 
in  the  street  the  impression  that  that  faction  had  prevailed. 
As  soon  as  the  falsity  of  the  report  was  announced,  the 
shout  "Cardinal  de'  Medici"  went  up;  and  children 
on  the  Aventine  were  crying  out  the  defeat  of  the 
*  Colonnas.  At  once  Vian  recognized  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  the  strong  guard.  Often,  in  spite  of  them,  did 
it  appear  that  the  cardinals  within  the  palace  would  be 
dispersed  by  the  furious  populace. 

Almost  every  cardinal,  fourteen  days  ago,  had  gone 
into  his  cell,  —  a  room  sixteen  feet  long  and  ten  feet 
broad,  —  healthful  and  confident.  Now  every  one  was 
pale  and  weary.  When  twelve  cardinals  had  voted  for 
Farnese,  Saint  Quator,  whose  strength  was  stimulated  by 
the  prospect  of  an  immediate  decision,  shouted,  "  Papem 
habemus." 

Colonna  rose  at  once. 

"Papem  habemus,"  cried  out  the  Imperialists,  led  by 
Campeggio  and  De'  Medici. 

"Your  reckoning  is  false,"  shrieked  the  haughty 
Colonna. 

"  Papem  habemus  !  Papem  habemus  !  "  came  from 
twelve  throats. 


72  MONK  AND  KXIGIIT. 

"  No  ! "  and  Colonna  had  vanquished  the  pretenders 
of  the  Farnese  faction. 

Out  into  the  multitude  came  the  word  "  Farnese,"  on 
wings  unseen.  On  that  instant  the  crowd  broke  into 
fragments.  Soon  the  palace  of  Farnese  was  surrounded. 
Beyond  the  artillery  and  over  the  heads  of  the  troops 
which  defended  it,  the  rough  crowd  saw  within  the 
splendid  residence  the  testimonies  to  his  luxurious  taste. 
They  paused ;  the  troops  were  its  defence ;  and  leaving 
Ix^hind  them  the  silent  cannon,  the  throng  pushed  its  way 
again  toward  the  Basilica. 

Inside,  the  half-starved  cardinals  were  listening  to  the 
nomination  of  Colonna ;  and  as  the  wave  went  back  which 
had  brought  that  name  forward,  the  name  of  the  might- 
iest cardinal  in  Europe  was  pronounced. 

"  His  youth  !  No  !  "  shouted  one  after  another. 

"  Too  young,"  said  an  Imperialist  who  dreaded  Wol- 
sey's  name. 

•  Nine  votes,"  said  the  chalice  which  gleamed  upon  the 
altar. 

I  V  Medici,  Campeggio,  and  Volterra  were  pale,  while 
Colonna  and  Farnese  were  wild  with  wrath.  They  could 
not  help  hearing  the  shoutings  of  the  multitude  without ; 
but  now  they  were  far  more  intent  upon  the  message  to  be 
given  by  those  silent  billets,  which  with  so  many  genuflex- 
ions were  being  deposited  within  the  chalice. 

It  is  done  :  thirty-nine  cardinals  present ;  thirty-nine 
votes  have  been  cast ;  all  is  orderly. 

"Twelve  votes,"  said  the  officer,  with  faltering  voice. 

•  Not  once  have  I  received  more  than  six,"  thought  De' 
Medici,  who  was  determined  to  stand  well  with  Wolsey 
if  his  election  should  be  accomplished,  but  was  sure 
that  the  next  scrutiny  would  not  be  so  favorable  to 
him. 

"  Too  young,"  repeated  the  cardinals,  who  feared  only 
his  abilities. 


A   NEW  POPE.  73 

"  He  is  less  than  sixty  and  more  than  fifty,"  said 
Campeggio. 

Again  the  chalice  was  the  receptacle  of  votes,  which 
were  placed  within  with  a  trembling  hand.  Only  the 
Medici  faction  was  calm. 

"  Nineteen  votes,"  said  the  officer,  with  evident 
consternation. 

Oh,  could  Vian  have  known  it  as  he  stood  there  on  the 
outside,  laughing  at  Rabelais  as  he  talked  of  his  new 
cloak  ! 

Inside,  every  face  showed  exhaustion  but  that  of  De' 
Medici.  He,  however,  now  saw  that  he  could  not  be 
chosen.  Wolsey  was  showing  too  much  power.  "  Now 
let  the  Imperialists  rally,"1  whispered  De'  Medici. 

Don  Manuel  had  made  De'  Medici  the  lieutenant  of 
Charles  V.  in  the  conclave.  Henry  VIII.  and  Wolsey 
must  be  defeated.  Tortosa  was  to  be  the  Imperial  can- 
didate if  De'  Medici  could  not  obtain  the  tiara ;  and  now 
for  ten  times  the  chalice  had  registered  the  growing 
strength  of  another. 

"  Twenty-six  votes ! "  and  this  was  the  eleventh 
scrutiny. 

"  Tortosa  !  Tortosa  !  "  they  cried.  Election  by  scru- 
tiny was  overthrown ;  and  by  concurrence  an  aged  and 
feeble  man,  schoolmaster  long  years  ago  to  Charles  V., 
was  chosen  to  the  throne  of  Leo  X. 

"The  Holy  Ghost  did  it !  "  said  the  tired  cardinals. 
The  crowd  repeated  it. 

Outside  the  Basilica,  Rabelais  said  to  Vian,  "  The  Holy 
Ghost  can  do  little  enough,  as  we  know,  so  long  as  they 
are  in  good  health." 

Then  the  crowd  caught  up  the  words  of  the  wit. 
Screams  greeted  the  cardinals  as  they  came  forth.  The 
city  was  a  laugh,  a  jeer,  a  peril  which  derided  the  con- 
clave, and  hated  the  name  of  the  "  stranger  Pope,"  as 
they  called  him. 


74  .JA>.VA'  A. YD    KXIGIIT. 

In  the  morning,  when  Vian  set  out  from  Civita  Vecchia 
for  London,  the  gray  mist  was  still  lingering  above  the 
Pontine  marshes,  and  the  quiet  dawn  which  had  now  lit  up 
the  desolation  of  the  Coliseum  fell  upon  the  ground,  like 
the  gold  powder,  which,  with  mixed  carmine  and  minium, 
served  to  conceal  the  same  blood-spattered  soil  when, 
centuries  before,  the  roads  which  led  to  Rome  were  those 
of  politics  rather  than  of  ecclesiastics,  and  when  within 
that  enclosure  Rome  shouted  over  the  cruel  spectacle  of 
death  in  the  amphitheatre. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE    COURT   AND    THE    VISION. 

Doth  he  use  then  on  mules  to  ryde  ? 
Yea,  and  that  with  so  shameful  pryde 

That  to  tell  it  is  not  possible : 
More  like  a  God  celestiall 
Than  any  creature  mortall 

With  worldly  pompe  incredible. 

ROY. 

VIAN  had  been  sent  to  Rome  to  bear  a  special  mes- 
sage to  Don  Manuel.  He  had  failed  to  see  his 
Lord  Cardinal  made  pope ;  but  there  were  other  things 
for  him  to  do. 

Before  Vian  had  been  at  Whitehall  a  single  fortnight, 
Thomas  Wolsey  had  recognized  him  as  a  young  man  of 
careful  scholarship,  fine  business  ability,  and  above  all, 
of  quick  and  accurate  perception  of  the  motives  and 
character  of  the  men  around  the  chancellor.  Wolsey 
himself  was  astonished  at  Vian's  capacity  for  affairs  asso- 
ciated so  intimately  with  what  seemed  to  him  a  daring 
genius  for  speculation  in  matters  of  religion  and  philoso- 
phy. His  success  on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth.of  Gold," 
in  pleasing  every  one  interested  in  the  display,  furnished 
proof  enough  of  his  ability. 

"  I  want  you  always  to  be  with  me  at  Hampton  Court, 
whither  I  shall  often  go  for  quietude  and  the  fresh  air.  I 
shall  not  be  troubled  with  much  business  there.  I  order 


76  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

that  all  business  shall  be  done  at  Whitehall.  I  want 
Hampton  Court  for  health  and  rest,  and  there  we  will 
talk  over  your  '  new  learning '  and  reforms  in  the  Holy 
Church,"  said  his  Eminence. 

There  was  a  slight  flavor  of  irony  in  these  last  words 
which  almost  assured  Vian  that  while  the  Chancellor  ap- 
preciated his  fitness  for  diplomacy,  he  would  make  an 
effort  to  rid  him  of  his  heresies.  Yet  he  believed  that 
Wolsey's  interest  in  heretics  and  heresies  was  political, 
not  religious.  Things  had  become  so  pressing  that  it  was 
only  a  word  now  and  then  which  was  spoken  upon  these 
subjects.  Only  when  the  shrewd  politician  saw  that 
something  in  the  mind  of  his  trusted  young  friend  was 
taking  the  very  soul  out  of  that  delicately  formed  body, 
—  only  when  he  saw  that  Vian  was  so  influenced  by  some 
such  weight  upon  him  that,  brilliant  and  powerful  as  he 
was,  he  had  really  exhibited  but  a  small  portion  of  his 
energy  in  politics,  —  was  it  that  his  Grace  would  chat  with 
him  about  the  progress,  perilous  enough  to  crowns  and 
mitres,  of  the  new  opinions  at  Oxford,  the  attitude  of 
the  scholars  toward  the  Greek  philosophy  which  had 
been  brought  from  Florentine  academies,  and  more  par- 
ticularly the  impossibility,  as  the  cardinal  saw  it,  of 
keeping  a  Church  at  all  without  a  more  comprehensive 
treatment  or  a  severer  discipline. 

"  Abbot  Richard  Beere  may  be  right,"  said  he  ;  "  the 
sword  must  go  against  the  heretic." 

Little  as  Thomas  Wolsey  could  know  of  the  demand  for 
freedom  which  such  a  soul  as  Vian's  was  making,  now 
and  then  the  keen  discernment  of  the  eminent  Churchman 
enabled  him  to  meditate  thus  :  — 

"  I  say  this  young  man  needs  no  liberality  of  thought 
which  he  does  not  already  possess,  because  I  avow  truly 
that  I,  as  a  faithful  and  important  adherent  of  the  Pope, 
need  nothing  for  myself  which  I  have  not.  Perhaps, 
however,  the  freedom  which  I  use  comes  to  me  because 


THE   COURT  4ND   THE    VISION.  77 

the  Holy  Church  has  much  open  space  in  the  direction 
of  my  desires,  and  there  may  be  not  a  hand's-breadth  of 
freedom  in  the  direction  of  Vian's  aspirations.  There 
ought  to  be  room  on  every  side,  for  we  are  not  all  alike." 

Only  his  profound  love  for  the  young  ecclesiastic  and 
the  evident  demands  of  policy  would  allow  him  to  yield 
to  better  reasonings  than  those  which  ever  come  to  any 
soul  untouched  by  love.  They  detained  his  scheming 
intellect,  however,  but  for  a  moment.  Soon  some  bril- 
liant plan  for  a  short  cut  to  the  papal  throne  mastered 
him,  and  Vian's  cry  for  freedom  seemed  both  silly  and 
wicked  to  the  mind  of  the  chancellor. 

"Vian,  my  son,"  he. would  say,  "the  honor  of  your 
sovereign,  Henry  of  England,  the  duties  you  owe  to  his 
Holiness,  the  loyalty  you  have  pledged  to  me,"  —  Wol- 
sey  always  talked  with  such  an  ascending  scale  in  mind, 
—  "  these  ought  to  banish  such  whimperings  from  your 
breast." 

One  man  at  least  partially  understood  Vian.  Fra  Gio- 
vanni, who  was  thoroughly  at  home  at  Hampton  Court, 
whose  absence  from  Glastonbury  Abbey  was  productive  of 
unalloyed  delight  in  the  minds  of  both  the  abbot  and  his 
sympathizing  priors,  had  watched  the  contesting  ener- 
gies as  they  struggled  within  him.  Much  as  the  happy 
old  friar  was  interested  in  Vian's  fight  for  intellectual  lib- 
erty, he  was  so  sure  that  he  would  obtain  it  that  he  gave 
himself  no  special  concern  upon  the  point;  but  rather  did 
he  devote  his  observations  —  for  Fra  Giovanni  was  a 
consummate  detective,  as  had  been  proven  in  Italy  and 
England  —  to  what  he  saw  was  a  battle  between  a  vision 
and  a  philosophy. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  explain  Vian's  mental  condition  to 
Thomas  More,  who  had  begun  to  believe  that  the  bril- 
liant future  of  Vian  as  a  scholar  was  overcast  with  clouds. 

"  Why,"  said  the  old  friar,  as  they  stood  talking  one 
morning  at  Hampton  Court,  to  which  More  often  came 


78  .i/avA"  Axn  K\H;HT. 

either  as  an  honored  giiest  or  becai:  v  and  the 

king's  affairs  required  it,  "  the  young  man  is  in  love 
with  a  vision,  lias  loved  the  object  of  that  vision  for  nearly 
fifteen  years,  and  is  trying  to  kill  his  love  with  the 
philosophy  of  Pythagoras." 

••  He  will  never  IK*  able  to  destroy  a  heart-beat  with  a 
theory  of  his  1>:  1  the  intrepid  man,  who  honored 

love  in  his  theories  and  in  his  experience. 

t    what   do  you    mean?     Something,   I   know,    is 
extracting  the  vigor  from  his  soul." 

••  Well,  let  us  go  out  where  we  may  talk  it  all  over. 
Yian  is  a  noble  young  fellow,  and  we  must  cleave  to  him 
now." 

"  Yian  nv.ist  have  the  privilege  of  doing  his  own  think- 
ing if  he  be  not  badly  heretical,"  said  Thomas  More,  not 
at  all  conversant  with  the  truth  which  I-'ra  (iiovanni  had 
discovered,  and  never  guessing  that  Vian  had  gone  further 
toward  the  iconoclasm  which  More  feared  than  the  latter 
dreamed. 

"That  is  not  what  r<>  >ul  so  uneasily  now.      I 

say  to  you  that  he  is  trying  to  abolish  a  passionate  love 
for  a  fancied  maiden,  with  a  theory  of  the  transmigration 
of  souls." 

"  Impossible  !  "  again  remarked  the  statesman. 
\-  the  two  were  wending  their  way  slowly  across  the 
red-brick  court,  beneath  the  latticed  windows  and  through 
the  awe-inspiring  cloisters,  the  young  man  himself  in 
whose  career  they  had  such  interest  was  explaining  to  the 
chancellor's  secretary,  who  was  very  tolerant  of  his  reli- 
gious or  irreligious  proclivities,  why  he  could  not  wisely 
accomplish  a  mission  to  the  court  of  Francis  I.,  which  had 
been  proposed  to  him. 

The  secretary  had  insisted  ;  Vian  was  faithful  to  the 
interests  of  Wolsey,  and  refused  to  go. 

Wolsey  himself  knew  of  the  unpleasant  meeting  of 
Vian  and  Ami  on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold ;  " 


THE   COURT  AND   THE    VISION.  79 

but  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  at  this  juncture  it 
might  be  important  to  consider  its  effect  upon  diplomacy. 
Vian  had  become  almost  indispensable  in  the  service  of 
his  Grace.  He  had  shown  a  comprehensive  talent  for 
statecraft,  and  brought  a  wonderful  insight  into  associa- 
tion with  his  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  forces  which 
were  agitating  the  religious  and  literary  world.  Wolsey 
therefore  had  felt  peculiar  gratitude  that  Vian  escaped 
the  dagger  of  Ami. 

Wolsey  would  willingly  have  trusted  Vian  with  any 
message  or  task  in  England  or  France.  Why  was  he  not 
willing  to  go?  It  certainly  could  not  mean  insubor- 
dination. "Surely  'the  new  learning'  has  not  entirely 
turned  the  head  of  Vian,"  thought  the  chancellor.  His 
Grace  also  remembered  the  girl  Astree.  He  chuckled 
at  the  thought  that  Vian's  fear  of  meeting  her  again  — 
lovely  creature  that  she  was  —  might  have  saved  for  his 
Grace  at  this  hour  the  skill  and  tried  talents  of  his  most 
brilliant  servant. 

Then  the  chancellor  laughed,  as  he  said  to  his  secre- 
tary :  "  The  young  man  Vian  is  mysterious.  He  is  not 
in  love.  He  cares  nothing  for  the  French  girl  whom  he 
rescued.  That  abominable  philosophy  of  Pythagoras  has 
destroyed  the  charm  of  every  female  for  Vian,  except 
that  of  the  intangible  girl  in  his  vision.  Abbot  Richard 
said  he  never  could  be  a  respectable  monk  with  that 
beautiful  little  girl  floating  in  his  dreams.  Mayhap  I 
cannot  make  him  a  good  politician  until  the  vision  fades. 
One  thing  is  sure  :  the  young  man  Vian  has  a  clean  soul, 
and  pure.  I  wish  all  monks  had  some  vision  which,  like 
Vian's,  would  keep  them  from  mortal  sin." 

No  other  man  in  Wolsey's  service  at  that  hour  would 
have  dared  to  object  to  going  to  France.  It  was  such 
an  honor  that  even  wisdom  of  the  ordinary  sort  would 
have  been  deluded.  It  was  a  delicate  situation  for  the 
monk  who  was  now  playing '  in  politics,  for  the  scholar 


8o 

who  was  so  successful  at  diplomacy.  Vian  was  known  to 
no  great  reverence  for  the  papal  chair.  Canlinal 
Wolsey  had  been  offered,  in  1520,  the  help  of  the 
emperor  by  the  Spanish  envoys  toward  that  position ; 
and  at  Bruges  Charles  V.  had  voluntarily  indicated  his 
acquiescence  in  the  scheme.  Vian  was  known  to  have 
regarded  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  "  as  a  magnifi- 
cent farce  considered  by  the  side  of  Wycliffe's  translation 
of  the  New  Testament.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  de- 
clined to  go  to  France  and  represent  Wolsey,  because  he 
pretended  to  foresee  that  the  demands  of  the  Reformers 
and  the  popularizing  of  intelligence  would  some  day  be 
considered  as  the  only  worthy  topics  of  the  time  for 
kings,  cardinals,  and  even  their  private  advisers  and 
jits  to  interest  themselves  about? 

The  great  effort  at  mediation  at  Calais  had  failed. 
On  Nov.  25,  1521,  he  bad  left  the  obstinate  Emperor 
Charles  V.  and  the  ambitious  Francis,  —  the  one  to  his 
r :  the  other  to  a  man  whose  strong  intellect  divided 
honors  with  a  passionate,  jealous  hate  of  Wolsey 's  young 
friend  Vian.  This  latter  was  the  chosen  friend  of 
Francis  I.,  —  Ami,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  and  who 
at  the  moment  when,  to  obtain  even  a  temporary  truce 
with  Charles  V.,  the  king  would  have  surrendered  Fonta- 
rabia,  said  :  "  Sire,  his  Majesty  the  Emperor  of  Germany 
has  no  equivalent  to  offer  you.  I  beg  you  to  accept 
no  brief  truce  from  Charles  V.  through  the  hand  of  a 
cardinal  who  desires  the  papacy." 

From  that  hour  Cardinal  Wolsey  had  understood  the 
influence  which  this  young  knight  Ami  exercised  upon 
the  mind  of  the  French  King.  He  knew  that  on  the 
"  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  "  Vian  had  met  an  antago- 
nist of  equal  power.  He  now  reflected  that  Vian  might 
have  the  best  of  reasons  for  declining  to  go  upon  the 
proposed  mission.  Of  one  thing  he  was  sure, —  Vian 
was  not  a  coward. 


THE   COURT  AND    THE    VISION.  8 1 

That  morning  Wolsey  had  departed  from  Hampton 
Court,  "desiring  to  be  alone,"  as  he  said  to  More ;  and 
so  was  rowed  down  the  Thames  by  eight  trusty  and  stal- 
wart oarsmen,  to  find,  before  he  set  foot  upon  the  palace 
stairs  at  Whitehall,  that  Vian,  the  young  monk,  who  had 
previously  saved  him  from  the  hate  of  Leo  X.  by  the 
discovery  obtained  from  the  ambassador  of  Charles  V., 
had  now,  by  his  wise  refusal  to  go  to  the  court  of  France, 
exempted  his  plans  with  Francis  I.  from  what  would  have 
been  sure  defeat.  Vian  had  put  a  letter  into  the  hands 
of  the  cardinal  as  he  entered  the  boat,  and  in  it  all  was 
explained. 

"  The  Pythagorean  philosopher  may  not  be  satisfactory 
to  Glastonbury,  but  his  political  sagacity  adorns  Hampton 
Court,"  thought  his  Grace,  as  he  tore  the  note  to  pieces, 
and  threw  its  fragments  into  the  river. 

"  My  refusal  to  prejudice  the  cause  of  my  Lord  Chan- 
cellor by  meeting  him  who  is  at  once  my  bitterest  foe 
and  the  trusted  daemon  of  Francis  I.,  may  bring  upon  me 
the  contempt  of  his  Grace  for  the  present ;  but  I  will 
bide  my  time,"  was  the  remark  made  by  Vian  to  the 
secretary  at  the  same  moment  at  Hampton  Court. 

In  their  long  walk  through  the  buildings  already 
erected,  and  in  sight  of  improvements  already  begun, 
More  and  Giovanni  had  resolved  to  put  into  operation 
some  scheme  which  should,  if  possible,  so  relieve  Vian's 
mind  of  some  of  its  problems  that  he  might  achieve  the 
high  success  as  a  man  of  political  affairs  which  seemed 
possible  for  him. 

"  You  ought  not  to  be  here  simply  revising  the  plans 
of  James  Bettes,  even  if  he  does  call  himself  '  master  of 
the  works  of  Thomas,  Cardinal  of  York,'  "  said  More. 

"  I  learned  architecture  of  Richard  Beere,  Abbot  of 
Glastonbury,"  replied  Vian,  as  he  proceeded  to  give  in- 
structions concerning  the  copings  of  the  parapets  and 
VOL.  n.  —  6 


82  .!/<>.  VA'  A\D   KXICIIT. 

the  forms  oi  those  chimney-shafts  which  have  delighted 
Victoria  in  our  own  day. 

mes  Bettes  is  not  some  Angelo  dead  and  born 
again,"  said  Giovanni,  trying  to  make  Pythagoreanism 
appear  in  Vian's  answer. 

"  No ;  if  he  had  been  an  Angelo  he  would  be  laboring 
now  at  some  St.  Paul's  School,  or  perhaps  at  building  a 
great  temple  for  heretics.  A  man  who  has  been  brave 
and  good  never  finds  himself  born  anew  on  a  lower 
scale." 

"  Vian,"  said  More,  with  a  touch  of  friendship  in  his 
tone,  "  come  with  me  for  a  holiday." 

"  I  must  not  leave  my  Lord  Cardinal.  When  he  returns 
I  must  tell  him  again  that  I  cannot  go  to  France.  That 
fiend  Ami  will  upset  his  plans  if  he  knows  I  have  to  do 
with  them.  I  could  not  go.  Would  you  explain  it  to 
.race?  Fra  Noglini,  who  knows  the  knight,  avows 
that  his  jealousy  of  me  is  so  great  that  he  would  join  the 
heretic  William  Farel,  and  go  body  and  soul  with  the 
Reformers  themselves,  had  he  not  learned  that  you  and 
Master  Erasmus  were  my  friends,  that  I  loved  to  read 
the  '  Praise  of  Folly,'  and  that  if  he  became  a  heretic, 
he  might  find  myself  in  the  crowd." 

>u  are  in  politics  now,  and  out  of  church  quarrels," 
said  (iiovanni. 

'•  Yes.  But  I  want  to  feel  free  in  my  thought  and  faith, 
nevertheless  ;  and  he,  the  hypocritical  Waldensian  sucking 
sweets  at  the  court  of  Francis  I.,  pretends  to  have  a  con- 
science. He  is  an  infernal  scoundrel,  but  he  hates  the  in- 
dulgences as  much  as  does  any  true  saint.  He  would  break 
!  ijesty's  realm  to  pieces  to  defeat  me.  I  want  to 
be  true  to  my  Lord  Cardinal,  good  friends,  and  I  refuse  to 
go  to  France  on  any  mission  for  the  sake  of  his  Grace. 
I  beg  you  explain  to  his  Grace  where  I  am.  I  did  not 
try  to  steal  the  affections  of  the  girl  Astre"e.  I  want  no 
woman's  love.  My  philosophy  prevents  my  loving  any 


THE   COURT  AND    THE    VISION.  83 

man's  beloved.  Pythagoras  teaches  that  woman  is  man 
who  has  done  wrong  in  some  previous  life.  I  prefer  men. 
But  oh,  I  had  a  vision  once  —  " 

More  thought  he  saw  that  the  monk  was  on  the  verge 
of  madness.  He  was  standing,  or  trying  to  stand,  where 
hurricanes  were  meeting. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  better  amuse  yourself  with  helping 
his  Grace  to  build  and  adorn  Hampton  Court,"  said 
Giovanni,  full  of  sympathy. 

This  touched  Vian's  soul.  He  hated  the  life  he  had 
been  living.  He  hated  the  struggle  through  which  he 
had  been  led.  He  hated,  most  of  all,  the  thought  that 
he  must  actually  abuse  a  mind  made  for  higher  things,  by 
amusing  it  in  this  crisis  with  the  magnificence  of  the 
court  of  Henry  VIII.  and  the  splendors  of  Wolsey's 
.country  palace.  The  society  of  one  great  truth,  held 
honestly  and  defended  with  heroism,  would  have  compen- 
sated him  for  the  loss  of  all;  but  he  was  hedged  on 
every  side. 

"It  is  all  amusing,"  said  he,  ato  have  a  mind  un- 
moved with  the  greater  facts  of  this  life.  I  have  a  cer- 
tain faculty  of  hearing  the  lies  of  kings  and  popes  and 
cardinals,  and  arranging  them  so  that  my  Lord  Cardinal 
can  beat  them  all  at  lying.  I  am  here  so  long  as  the 
falsities  of  men  are  valuable  to  one  another.  I  want  the 
truth.  No  pageant  can  hide  that  desire."  Then  he 
added  in  a  long  laugh :  "  We  had  a  pageant  ludicrous 
enough  here  at  Hampton  Court.  My  Lord  Cardinal  was 
giving  a  dinner  to  an  ambassador.  He  sat  in  the  centre 
of  the  high  table.  Around  him  were  the  guests.  Two 
ladies  were  very  near  to  his  Grace.  Gold  and  silver 
vases  stood  where  we  could  find  room.  The  minstrels 
played ;  and  the  dinner  being  over,  the  maskers  waited 
in  the  chamber  for  the  procession.  Everybody  was  dis- 
guised. The  hoods  had  been  made  in  France,  Spain, 
and  Italy.  The  laces  of  gold  and  the  embroidered  green 


84  A/OArA'  AND  KXIGHT. 

satin  came  from  Flanders.  The  waiters  upon  those  who 
wished  to  gamble  held  the  bowls  full  of  ducats  and  dice, 
while  the  dance  went  on.  Suddenly  the  king  him^lf 
rushed  in,  masked  and  picture^  [tie.  1  orty  others  followed 
attired  as  the  hideous  crew  of  a  pirate.  Consternation 
seized  every  one.  The  torch-bearers  dropped  their  torches, 
the  drums  thundered,  and  the  fifes  screamed,  until  all  was 
confusion.  Then  the  king  himself  pulled  down  his  visor, 
and  laughed  at  my  Lord  Cardinal,  whereat  the  king  sat 
down  and  played  on  the  harpsichord  while  he  sang  a 
laughable  song.  It  was  all  very  amusing  ;  but  I  would 
rather  have  an  hour  with  Erasmus.  Then  there  are 
serious  questions  of  statecraft  here.  Charles  V.  swears 
and  breaks  his  oath;  the  Pope  promises  and  forgets; 
Francis  I.  embraces  his  Majesty,  my  king  and  yours,  and 
both  of  them  have  their  ministers  arranging  another  farce. 
It  is  all  serious  and  amusing,  good  friends  ;  but  I  have 
ion,  as  you  know.  That  vision  I  have  buried 
in  philosophy;  but  I  do  not  think  that  Pythagoras  or 
even  the  Pope  can  bury  the  noisy  demand  of  the  Reform- 
ers. What  think  you?" 

More   said  nothing.      He  was   charmed,   astonished, 
perplexed  ;  and  he  rested  not  until,  on  the   return  of 
was    allowed    two    or    three    days    as   a 
holiday. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

PYTHAGOREANISM    AT   SIR   THOMAS    MORE'S. 

All  things  are  but  altered,  nothing  dies, 
And  here  and  there  th'  embodied  spirit  flies 
By  time  and  force  and  sickness  dispossessed, 
And  lodges  where  it  lights  in  man  or  beast. 

PYTHAGORAS  in  OVID  (Dryderi 's  translation). 

"  TT  is  a  battle  between  a  vision  and  a   philosophy 
J-     then,"    said    More,    looking   upon  Vian  with    his 
placid  gray  eyes. 

"  Alas  !  I  am  torn  to  shreds  with  the  contest,  what- 
ever it  may  be,"  answered  the  Pythagorean  monk,  as  he 
shook  his  head  aimlessly. 

They  were  standing  together  in  the  home  which  has 
become  renowned  in  history  for  its  refinement  and  af- 
fection. Hours  were  gliding  by  on  wings  of  gold.  It 
was  impossible  for  Vian  to  escape  the  charm  of  the  family 
life  which  made  that  house  so  heavenly.  The  intellectual 
impulse  which  was  generated  there  moved  Vian's  mind 
toward  love.  He  yearned  for  such  mental  and  spiritual 
companionship  as  made  the  atmosphere  ideal.  Heart- 
hunger  never  appeared  so  irrepressible.  He  remembered 
that  More  had  once  been  pledged  to  the  life  of  a  monk. 
He  could  not  avoid  contrasting  what  would  have  been 
the  loneliness  and  thirst  of  his  soul  with  the  delicious  in- 
terchange of  thought  and  feeling,  the  bright  and  glowing 
fires  of  mutual  devotion,  which  characterized  that  home. 


86  MOM  A. YD  KX1GIIT. 

Love  had  made  her  sacred  temple  there.  The  altars 
of  affection  were  covered  with  costly  sacrifices  so  freely 
given.  The  fire  from  on  high  was  consuming  the  offer- 
ing. The  incense-cloud  of  affection  ascended  to  the 
great  white  throne. 

"  I  have  been  pledged  to  a  monastic  life ;  I  am  an 
oath-bound  celibate,"  thought  Vian  with  a  sigh,  as  the 
wife  of  More  came  near  and  placed  her  hand  upon  the 
shoulder  of  her  illustrious  companion. 

They  had  a  delicate  topic  to  talk  upon.  More  was 
anxious  to  deal  with  one  problem  at  a  time,  and  his  wife 
was  conscious  that  her  presence  would  interfere  seriously 
with  the  full  expansion  of  a  conversation  on  celibacy. 
One  such  beauteous  planet  suddenly  coming  into  such  a 
gloomy  sky  would  unduly  irradiate  and  might  confuse  a 
soul  so  embarrassed  with  the  limitations  which  annoyed 
Vian.  She  soon  found  another  task  of  love  elsewhere. 

"  But  your  devotion  to  Pythagoras  has  more  to  do  just 
now  toward  putting  out  the  fires  of  love,  than  your  attach- 
ments to  the  monastic  life,"  said  the  wise  friend. 

"  Alas,  oftentimes  my  vision  of  my  mate  plays  havoc 
with  my  philosophy,  good  sir  !  "  observed  Vian,  painfully 
smiling. 

More  was  determined  to  test  him. 

"You  have  had  a  beautiful  vision,  Vian;  and  Saint 
Paul,  when  he  explains  the  glory  of  his  own  career,  has 
said,  '  I  was  not  disobedient  unto  the  heavenly  vision.'  " 

"  But,  good  friend  ! "  urged  Vian,  "  mine  began  as  the 
vision  of  a  child." 

"  Samuel's  vision,  so  the  Scripture  tells  us,  was  a  child's 
vision.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  Saviour  of  the 
oldest  of  sinners  makes  him  return  to  his  childhood  be- 
fore he  is  saved.  Except  we  become  as  little  children, 
we  cannot  be  saved,"  replied  More. 

"Yes;  but,"  Vian  said,  as  he  felt  the  vision  steal 
upon  him  again,  and  command  him  with  its  pristine 


P  YTHA  GOREANISM  A  T  SIR  THOMAS  MO  RE'S.       8  / 

charm,  —  "  yes ;  but  I  have  been  taught  that  these  desires 
for  love  and  for  being  loved,  this  thirst  for  the  one  above 
all  others  whom  I  must  love,  whom  I  have  never  really 
seen,  —  I  have  had  it  all  held  before  me  as  a  temptation 
of  the  Devil.  Against  something  of  this  sort  saint  after 
saint  has  struggled.  To  escape  that  pitfall,  some  of  the 
more  holy  have  cut  their  bodies  with  flints  and  rolled  in 
tangled  patches  of  briers,  penetrated  their  flesh  with 
thorns,  and  frozen  their  limbs  in  caves  of  ice.  Oh,  it 
seems  so  strange  that  this  beautiful  one,  whom  I  never 
have  lost  out  of  my  vision,  should  be  the  only  power  in 
my  life  to  keep  me  pure  and  to  make  me  hope  for  saint- 
liness ;  and  yet  that  all  the  custodians  of  religion  should 
tell  me,  from  the  words  of  the  Fathers  and  the  lives  of 
the  saints,  that  the  dream  I  have  had  of  her  is  the  Devil's 
own  invention  to  drag  me  to  hell !  " 

"  It  cannot  be,"  said  More,  firmly. 

Vian,  long  hours  before,  had  told  the  story.  In  spite 
of  this  vow,  it  had  haunted  him ;  and  now,  in  spite  of 
Pythagoreanism,  which  had  been  a  sort  of  substitute  for 
that  faith  in  the  Church  which  he  had  lost  and  which 
degraded  woman,  the  vision  came  back  upon  his  soul 
with  a  celestial  beauty.  He  had  an  affectionate  faith 
that  Thomas  More  would  get  him  into  no  difficulties. 
He  had  always  been  thankful  that  he  had  obeyed  the 
statesman  on  that  dusty  roadway,  when  he  followed  him 
and  Erasmus,  and  that  he  went  back  obediently  to  Glas- 
tonbury  Abbey.  He  had  told  but  three  men  of  the 
vision  which  had  followed  him  since  childhood.  He  had 
told  the  sub-prior,  on  an  occasion  forever  memorable  to 
Vian,  in  explanation  of  his  difficulties  with  the  monastic 
life.  He  had  related  the  story  of  his  ideal  love  for  his 
unseen  mate  to  Fra  Giovanni  and  Thomas  More.  Each 
had  met  him  with  a  characteristic  prescription.  Monas- 
ticism,  in  the  person  of  the  sub-prior,  regarded  his  vision 
as  a  Satanic  device  to  damn  him.  Fra  Giovanni  looked 


88  MOXK  AXD   K'XIGIIT. 

upon  it  with  the  contempt  inspired  by  a  philosophy  which 
made  a  woman  to  be  but  a  man  who  had  behaved  badly 
in  some  other  life,  and  was  therefore  punished  in  having 
to  appear  on  earth  as  a  female.  Thomas  More,  looking 
out  from  the  experiences  of  love  itself,  pitied  the  yearn- 
ing heart  of  Vian,  and  being  a  Churchman  who  feared  a 
little  the  revolutions  which  he  had  helped  to  incite,  tried 
to  be  cautious  even  in  his  use  of  truth. 

Everything  was  against  his  making  such  an  impression 
upon  Vian  as  would  serve  to  abolish  that  passionate  love. 
Here  was  a  living  woman  of  whom  her  husband  had 
written  an  epigram,  which  has  inspired  an  archbishop  to 
translate  it  thus  :  — 

"  With  books  she  Ml  time  beguile, 
And  make  true  bliss  her  own, 
Unbuoyed  by  Fortune's  smile, 
Unbroken  by  her  ; 

So  left  all  meaner  things, 
Thou  'It  on  her  breast  recline, 
While  to  her  lyre  he  ri 
Strains,  Philomel,  like  thine." 

Vian  was  a  lover,  a  musician,  and  a  man  of  literary 
talent.  His  ardor  was  not  cooling  in  the  presence  of  a 
beautiful  woman,  whose  husband,  by  educating  her  in 
literature  and  particularly  in  music,  had  made  the  Pythag- 
orean philosophy  so  ineffective  in  so  far  as  it  threw  a 
shadow  upon  such  womanhood.  Not  Holbein's  famous 
picture  in  oil,  nor  those  of  Erasmus's  "  Colloquies  "  in 
words,  so  sympathetically  reflected  the  love  at  the  home 
of  Sir  Thomas  More,  as  did  Vian's  growing  thir>t. 

More  shrugged  his  shoulder — Erasmus  tells  us  that 
"  his  right  shoulder  always  had  the  look  of  being  higher 
than  the  left"  —  when  Vian,  fully  intent  on  keeping  his 
faith  in  the  transmigration  of  souls,  proceeded  to  tell  him 
of  a  few  of  his  Pythagorean  experiences. 


PYTHAGOREANISM  AT  SIR  THOMAS  MO  RE'S.       89 

"  I  am  sure  that  in  some  other  life  I  have  met  our  sov 
ereign  Henry  VIII." 

"Where  did  you  encounter  him?  "  queried  the  host. 

"  In  Rome,  on  the  Appian  Way.  Yesterday  I  caught 
in  his  words  the  same  tones  with  which  he  spoke  to  his 
charioteer.  In  his  laugh  I  know  there  is  the  guffaw  of 
one  of  the  Caesars." 

"  Do  you  recognize  anybody  else  about  the  throne  or 
court  as  belonging  to  that  age  ?  Has  anybody  else's  soul 
transmigrated  ?  " 

"  Now,  good  sir,"  said  Vian,  trustfully,  "  you  will  grant 
me  forgiveness.  Master  Erasmus  would  not  find  fault. 
I  love  him.  The  chains  which  bound  me  once  to  worn- 
out  traditions  he  has  partially  broken  for  me.  "I  am  too 
thankful  to  do  him  dishonor.  I  know  that  he  wrote  the 
'  Praise  of  Folly,'  or  at  least  completed  it,  in  this  house. 
You  need  not  blame  me  —  " 

"  Vian,  you  need  not  be  anxious  ;  we  both  love  Eras- 
mus," said  More,  wistfully. 

"  Then  let  me  say  I  do  not  doubt  that  Erasmus  —  or 
the  man  we  know  as  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam  —  is  really 
Lucian  of  Samostata.  He  has  his  old  satire  ;  his  mind 
is  keen  with  the  same  weapons  of  wit  and  irony ;  and 
he  knows  that  the  priests  now  require  his  sarcasms,  as 
did  the  gods  in  the  time  of  his  previous  existence." 

"  Well,"  said  More,  laughingly,  "  that  is  a  bright  and 
just  literary  judgment,  at  all  events.  Erasmus  himself 
would  appreciate  that." 

"  So,"  said  Vian,  "  I  am  sure  that  one  of  the  sisters  at 
the  nunnery  is  one  of  the  vestal  virgins  of  Rome  come 
again.  She  acknowledged  to  me  that  at  night  by  the  cru- 
cifix she  finds  her  way  back  to  Rome.  The  old  Roman 
religion  has  begun  to  decay ;  a  new  faith  breathes  like  a 
spring-time  upon  the  altars,  and  a  fresh  enthusiasm  glows 
in  the  eyes  of  the  priests.  She  says  it  all  seems  to  be  re- 


QO  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

enacted  again.  Just  as  she  stood,  herself  being  one  of 
the  last  of  the  vestal  virgins,  at  altars  from  whence  the 
mind  of  ancient  Rome  had  been  led  by  the  decay  of  faith 
and  the  rise  of  a  novel  worship;  so  here  on  earth,  in 
this  new  time,  she  beholds  the  attack  on  the  papacy 
and  the  influence  of  '  the  new  learning,'  with  an  ominous 
atmosphere  around  it  all,  indicating  that  a  great  trans- 
formation has  come." 

"  You  must  live  in  a  very  strange  world,  Vian,"  said 
More,  reflectively. 

"  Yes ;  I  do  indeed.  The  ghosts  of  the  past  are  every- 
where. I  myself  am  one.  If  I  knew  all  previous  history, 
I  could  find  out  people  and  tell  them  their  past.  I  could 
also  tell  whether  they  had  done  well  or  badly  in  their 
other  lives.  The  very  animals  are  but  the  incarnate  souls 
of  very  vicious  people.  The  saints  and  heroes  are  those 
who  had  done  well  and  have  been  re- incarnate  at  a  higher 
point  in  the  scale.  When  I  recognize  a  man,  I  can  al- 
ways see  what  his  tendency  is,  downward  or  upward. 
One  thing  is  a  worry  to  me  —  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  More,  "  only  one  ?  " 

"  No  ;  would  it  were  so  !  Woman  is  a  problem,  —  that 
is,  some  women  are  problems." 

"Woman  has  always  been  a  problem,"  said  the  pleas- 
ant host. 

"  Yes ;  but  women  —  that  is,  all  women  —  do  not  take 
their  places  in  my  philosophy  as  they  ought,  if  they  are 
what  they  seem  to  be,  or  if  love  is  not  a  snare,  or  if  Py- 
thagorean doctrines  of  metempsychosis  be  true." 

"  That  is  a  fierce  trilemma.  Each  point  is  a  spear," 
said  More,  with  a  smile. 

<4  Well,  what  I  mean  is  just  this,"  —  pointing  to  the 
monkey  which  appears  in  Holbein's  famous  canvas,  "  The 
Household  of  Sir  Thomas  More,"  — an  animal  which 
there  nestles  in  the  robes  of  Dame  Alice  Middleton,  but 
which  in  actual  life  and  at  the  moment  spoken  of  was 


PYTHA  GOREANISM  A  T  SIR  THOMAS  MO  RE'S.       9 1 

climbing  upon  the  table  before  Vian,  —  "  that  monkey  is 
doubtless  the  re- incarnation  of  some  court-jester  —  " 

"  Or  philosopher,"  whispered  More. 

"And  Pythagoras  teaches  that  he  is  what  he  is  now 
because  he  was  so  bad  in  the  other  life.  But  Fra  Gio- 
vanni has  so  explained  Pythagoras  that  woman — " 

"And  you  are  a  Pythagorean,  having  lost  your  faith 
in  much  that  the  Church  teaches?"  inquired  More, 
reprovingly. 

"  I  believe  in  God,  in  the  Blessed  Son  our  Lord,  in  the 
Holy  Virgin —  " 

Vian  hesitated  with  the  words  "  Holy  Virgin ; "  and  then 
he  said  :  "  I  believe  the  teachings  of  Pythagoras  to  be 
true.  Some  day  they  will  be  harmonized  with  true 
Christianity." 

"  But,"  said  More,  "  you  find  it  hard  to  think  that  such 
a  woman  as  Dame  Alice  —  "  and  just  then  Alice  Middle- 
ton,  who  in  no  small  measure  had  taken  the  place  of 
"  the  gentle  girl "  whom  More  had  lost,  came  near  to 
them,  and  appeared,  as  she  was,  a  most  beautiful  and 
affectionate  woman —  "you  do  not  believe  that  she  "  - 
More  placed  his  hand  upon  her  white  forehead  — "  is 
only  a  bad  man  reborn  into  a  twenty  fifth  or  sixth  life." 

Vian  said,  "  No,"  with  decision. 

"  What  shall  we  say  about  your  vision  of  that  lovely 
maiden,  your  little  mate  at  Lutterworth?  It  seems  that 
if  Pythagoras  has  spoken  truth  she  must  have  been  a 
bad—" 

"  Never  !  Not  at  all !  "  cried  Vian.  "  I  would  annihi- 
late all  philosophies  before  I  could  believe  that.  She  is 
as  real  to  me  as  ever,  —  I  believe  that  I  love  her." 

"You  are  a  sworn  celibate  too,"  observed  Sir  Thomas 
More,  gravely. 

"  He  is  a  beautiful  lover,"  broke  in  Dame  Alice. 

"You  are  a  Pythagorean,"  said  More,  with  evident 
knowledge  of  the  difficulties  of  Vian's  heart  and  brain. 


92  J/0.VA'  AXD   KXIGHT. 

"  I  am  nothing,"  replied  the  monk,  —  "  nothing,  if  I 
do  not  love  that  vision  of  my  soul's  mate." 

"  Vian,"  —  More  began  slowly,  as  they  both  stood  up, 
and  Dame  Alice  put  her  hands  upon  the  gesticulating 
hand  of  Vian  and  that  of  her  husband,  — "  you  may 
know  that  when  I  was  younger  than  I  am  now,  I  played 
at  farces  which  I  myself  did  compose.  If  I  had  to  write 
one  now,  it  would  be  simply  the  record  of  an  imaginative 
young  monk  who  has  had  a  rapturous  vision  which  has 
been  too  powerful  to  allow  him  contentment  as  a  monk, 
and  which  is  now  too  strong  to  let  him  remain  a  Pythag- 
orean, believing  in  the  transmigration  of  the  soul.  As  I 
said  to  you,  the  battle  is  between  a  vision  and  a  philosophy  ; 
and  this  sweet  woman  knows  philosophy  will  not  win  the 
victory  when  love  is  in  the  vision." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Vian,  as  he  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  where  the  children  of  Sir  Thomas  were  learn- 
ing the  Greek  alphabet  by  shooting  arrows  at  the  letters, 
"  I  am  confident  that  it  was  a  child's  vision.  I  shall  find 
myself  always  a  Pythagorean  and  a  Christian.  I  have 
believed  that  I  should  some  day  behold  that  same  lovely 
face  which  has  haunted  my  eye.  But  the  abbot  assured 
me  that  it  is  the  temptation  of  the  Devil ;  and  I  was  once 
flogged  when  I  spoke  of  it  to  a  prior  who  had  thought  me 
heretical.  Later  on,  as  I  lost  my  ability  to  have  faithful 
care  for  the  relics  and  fasts  and  feast-days  at  Glastonbnry, 
the  vision  came  back.  I  thought  I  should  find  her  — 
O  God,  how  often  this  unseen  companion  of  my  spirit 
has  kept  me  from  mortal  sin  !  Then  the  first  truths 
of  Pythagorean  philosophy  became  my  meat  and  drink, 
instead  of  monks'  tales  and  the  exploits  of  saints.  I 
accept  that  philosophy  to-day." 

"  Of  course  it  involves  the  doctrine  of  the  soul's  trans- 
migration," said  More. 

"  Yes,"  hesitated  Vian.  "  I  believed  that  this  doctrine 
did  shed  a  fair  iight  upon  the  sweet  face  in  my  vision. 


PYTHAGOREANISM  AT  SIR   THOMAS  MO  RE'S.       93 

I  thought  that  I  must  have  known  my  mate  in  another 
life.  I  think  that,  beautiful  as  she  is  in  my  dream,  she 
has  been  compelled  to  work  out  a  ransom  for  herself 
somewhere.  She  lives  probably  in  some  corner  of  this 
big  world.  Oh,  I  dread,  and  yet  I  yearn  to  meet  her 
if  but  for  a  moment !  I  will  —  I  must  be  a  Pythago- 
rean. It  is  the  only  philosophy  to  harmonize  with,  our 
holy  religion.  I  will  not  —  I  cannot  believe  that  this 
affection  is  born  of  Satan.  That  vision  has  kept  me,  I 
say,  good  friends,  —  it  has  kept  me  pure.  I  am  glad 
enough  to  be  away  from  Glastonbury,  where  the  prior 
asked  me  daily  if  I  did  not  want  to  be  flogged  because 
the  face  of  my  soul's  mate  still  haunted  me." 

Dame  Alice  stood  near  him,  wondering,  breathing  a 
prayer  for  Vian.  It  was  at  an  hour  when  the  currents  of 
thought  which  preceded  the  Reformation  swept  before 
her,  mingling,  in  this  unique  experience,  the  driftwood  of 
the  past  with  gleams  which  lay  upon  a  tossing  flood  set 
toward  the  future. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE    SACRIFICE    OF     BAYARD. 
"  Lost !  an  army  in  the  hills  of  Genoa !  The  finder  shall  have  a  reward." 

HARDLY  had  Pope  Adrian  VI.  been  enthroned  by 
the  intrigues  of  Charles  V.  through  Don  Manuel, 
before  Don  Manuel  himself  began  to  share  the  con- 
tempt which  Rome  expressed  after  the  election. 

His  Holiness  offended  the  men  of  the  Renaissance, 
as  he  entered  the  Vatican.  He  remarked,  as  he  saw  the 
statuary,  "  Sunt  idola  Antiquorum  !  "  and  refused  to  enter 
the  Belvedere,  which  he  afterward  walled  up. 

"  The  Holy  Ghost,"  said  the  Spaniard,  "  was  with  the 
cardinals  in  the  conclave,  but  the  Devil  has  been  with 
them  since  they  came  out." 

His  Holiness  was  not  ready  to  hand  over  the  tiara  to 
the  custody  of  the  emperor ;  Adrian  VI.  even  contended 
that  Don  Manuel  had  tried  to  prevent  his  election. 

Charles  V.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey  were  soon  beholding 
at  Windsor  a  play,  in  which  "  Amity  "  (which  they  were 
expected  to  constitute)  had  sent  "  Prudence  "  and  "Pol- 
icy," who  broke  the  horse  "  Force,"  or  France,  bitting 
him  severely  and  reining  him  most  carefully.  France 
must  be  invaded  ;  and  the  Pope,  England,  and  the  em- 
peror were  against  her. 

Grave  as  was  the  peril  to  Francis  I.,  it  had  grown  more 
terrible,  when  one  morning  Ami  came  to  him  and  re- 
peated the  words  of  Bourbon  :  "  It  is  too  late." 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  BAYARD.  95 

"  Where  is  his  sword?  "  cried  out  the  French  monarch, 
who  was  wrathful  beyond  expression,  as  he  looked  into 
the  calm  face  of  Ami,  who  so  often  had'  urged  him  to  be 
just  with  Bourbon,  —  "  where  is  his  sword  ?  " 

"Sire,"  answered  Ami,  with  dignity  and  a  graceful 
courtesy  which  tangled  the  king's  thoughts,  "  he  bids  us 
say  to  your  Majesty  that  his  sword  was  taken  away  when 
his  command  was  given  to  the  husband  of  your  darling 
sister  Marguerite." 

"  The  collar  of  Saint  Michael?  " 

"  Here,  my  gracious  sovereign,"  said  Ami,  producing 
it.  "  It  was  under  the  head  of  his  bed  at  Chantelle." 

"  Oh,  Ami,"  said  the  king,  whose  heart  was  bursting 
with  pain  and  foreboding,  "  forgive  my  tears,  forgive  my 
insults  !  I  would  give  Duprat  and  Bonnivet,  Lautrec  and 
Lorraine, — all  of  them  would  I  give  for  him,  for  Bourbon, 
if  he  had  never  fallen  to  be  a  traitor." 

Ami  knew  that  this  was  no  time  for  reminding  the 
king  of  his  previously  expressed  anxieties  and  protests. 
No  true  knight  ever  said,  in  word  or  deed,  "  I  told  you 
so."  He  was  sure  that,  if  ever,  the  king  needed  his 
friendship  now.  Bourbon  had  been  mistreated  by  the 
king,  the  Chancellor  Duprat,  and  above  all,  by  Louise  of 
Savoy ;  but  now  Bourbon  was  a  traitor.  That  fact  was 
sufficient  to  warm  Ami's  spirit  to  enthusiasm  against 
him. 

Charles  V.  did  not  intend  the  conquest  of  France  ;  he 
was  simply  making  Henry  VIII.  pay  for  an  army  which 
would  persuade  Francis  I.  to  give  up  Milan.  Bourbon, 
in  his  flight,  had  eluded  the  eye  of  Francis ;  and  soon 
Francis  was  again  growing  weary  of  Ami's  pleas  that 
Duprat' s  schemes  for  the  capture  of  Bourbon  should  be 
superseded,  when  the  item  of  news  came,  —  Ami  had  to 
break  it  to  his  king,  —  "  The  Emperor  Charles  V.  has 
made  Bourbon  Lieutenant-General." 

While    Francis   I.  and  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  were 


96  J/aVA'  AXD   KX1GIIT. 

arranging  all  sorts  of  plans  to  tarnish  the  love  of  Astree 
and  Ami,  and  thus  to  reduce  it  to  the  level  of  their  own, 
the  young  knight  was  gathering  from  the  luminous  dark- 
ness of  Astree's  eyes,  and  from  the  soft  pressure  of  her 
lovely  hand,  the  courage  and  tenderness  with  which  next 
day,  having  followed  the  king  into  his  Majesty's  chamber, 
he  adjured  him  to  prevent  the  sacrifice  of  Bayard  to  the 
ignorance  of  Admiral  Bonnivet. 

"  He  will  not  complain,"  said  the  king,  who  was  full  of 
spite  over  the  failure  of  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand's  latest 
scheme. 

'*  /  do  not  complain,  Sire." 

The  rich  divan  upon  which  the  king  lay,  was  half 
hidden  with  the  splendid  garments  which  gave  beauty  to 
the  sinewy  strength  of  his  Majesty's  form.  As  the  king 
rose  to  say,  "  The  astrologer  said  it !  "  Ami's  eyes  fell  upon 
a  jewel-box  which  he  and  Astree  had  observed  in  the 
hands  of  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand ;  and  the  knight  turned 
away. 

April  30,  1524.  A  stone  sang  through  the  air.  Yon- 
der was  a  puff  of  smoke  from  an  arquebusier. 

"  Jesus,  my  God,  I  am  slain  !  " 

"  No,"  said  the  dying  man  later,  to  those  who  came  up 
to  hope  against  despair,  — "  no  ;  it  is  done."  His 
trembling  hand  lowered  his  sword,  and  the  glassy  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  shining  cross  in  its  hilt. 

"  Let  us  carry  him  hence,"  exclaimed  Ami. 

"  No !  In  death  I  will  not  turn  my  back  on  the 
enemy.  Charge  ye  !  " 

It  was  Chevalier  Bayard's  last  word  of  command. 
"  Miserere  mei,  Deus  Secundum  magnam  misericordiam 
tuam,"  murmured  he  again,  as  they  gently  placed  him, 
the  knight  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  under  the  whisper- 
ing tree  around  which  ran  a  clinging  vine. 

Through    his    tears    Ami    saw    the     dust-cloud.      The 


THE  SACRIFICE   OF  BAYARD,  QJ 

enemy  was  near.     Mid  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  Bayard  was 
confessing  to  a  young  man,  Jacques,  — 

"  All  I  regret  is  not  having  done  my  duty  as  I  ought  to 
have  done,"  he  said. 

"A  quart  of  my  blood  were  nothing  !  "  said  Pescara, 
the  foe,  as  he  commanded  that  Bayard's  enemies  should 
raise  a  tent  above  the  agonizing  man. 

At  that  instant  Ami  saw  a  well-known  figure  near 
him.  On  his  breast  was  the  coat  of  arms  of  Charles  V. ; 
in  his  eye  was  pain.  It  was  Bourbon. 

"  I  grieve  for  your  disaster,"  said  he,  kneeling  by  the 
side  of  the  greatest  of  knights. 

Chivalry  spoke  again.  Bourbon  had  risen.  Through 
the  branches  above  him  sighed  the  spring.  Prophecies 
of  summer  played  and  vanished  upon  his  glittering 
armor. 

A  cloud  came  over  the  scene,  as  Bayard  extended  his 
finger,  which  seemed  a  sword  tipped  with  scorn,  and  said  : 
"  My  Lord,  no  pity  for  me  !  I  have  done  my  duty,  and 
die.  There  is  pity  for  you,  who  fight  against  your  oath, 
your  country,  your  king." 

As  Bourbon  silently  withdrew,  Ami  felt  himself  knit,  in 
bonds  never  to  be  severed,  to  Francis  I.  and  to  France. 
He  was,  however,  not  less  sure  that  Admiral  Bonnivet 
had  sacrificed  Bayard. 

October  found  Bourbon  commanding  Milan,  which  he 
had  forsaken  when  his  army  was  in  such  condition  as 
would  justify  setting  up  in  Rome  such  a  pasquinade  as 
has  been  printed  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  and 
to  which  city  of  Milan  he  had  returned  with  thirteen 
thousand  men. 

Meantime  Ami  had  urged  Francis  I.  to  pursue  the 
disorganized  Imperialists,  until  his  Majesty,  acting  under 
Bonnivet's  advice,  had  told  him :  "  I  have  now  no  pa- 
tience with  you  or  with  astrologers." 

That  iron  entered  Ami's  soul.     What   should  he  do? 
VOL.  n.  —  7 


98  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Astre"e  was  far  away;  but  he  remembered  her  words. 
They  sufficed  to  make  him  burn  for  an  opportunity  to 
prove  himself  a  better  soldier  than  Admiral  Bonnivet. 
Ami  could  still  hear  Louise  of  Savoy  say  to  him  with 
stinging  scorn :  "  The  King  of  France  allowed  you  to 
exchange  the  cap  and  plume  of  a  page  for  halbert  and 
helm."  "No,"  had  said  Astr£e,  as  she  looked  upon 
her  knight  in  polished  steel ;  "  I  have  loved  a  knight, 
and  Bayard  said  it." 

The  king  himself  solved  Ami's  problem.  A  last  mes- 
sage to  his  Majesty,  which  had  been  lost  for  a  time,  had 
finally  arrived.  Bayard  had  so  commended  Ami  to  the 
King  of  France  that  Bonnivet's  words  went  for  naught ; 
and  Ami,  Feb.  23,  1525,  was  made  ready  to  serve  his 
sovereign  again. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


PAVIA. 

"  Madame,  tout  est  perdu  fors  Phonneur!" 

NOVEMBER  8  had  seen  the  king  sacrifice  more 
than  two  thousand  Frenchmen  in  storming  the 
town  of  Pavia.  The  river  was  a  torrent ;  the  skies  were 
murky ;  and  Bourbon  and  Pescara  had  strengthened  the 
Imperialists  by  their  arrival.  Around  the  governor,  An- 
tonio de  Leyva,  were  consolidated  the  viceroys  and  gen- 
erals of  Charles  V.  Francis,  in  obedience  to  Bonnivet, 
had  continued  the  siege,  in  spite  of  the  proposals  of  the 
enemy,  the  starved  condition  of  his  troops,  and  the  peril 
of  his  situation.  Continually  on  horseback,  he  rode 
about  within  sight  of  the  garrison  of  his  foe,  sneering 
at  the  suggestions  which  he  had  received  from  the  new 
Pope,  Clement  VII.,  and  laughing  with  Bonnivet  over 
Wolsey's  second  defeat  at  Rome. 

Antonio  de  Leyva  had  converted  all  the  sacred  vessels 
of  the  churches  into  coin ;  and  the  gold  chain  which 
hung  about  his  neck  had  been  melted  into  ingots.  The 
women  were  working  in  the  trenches.  Desperation  had 
done  its  work  in  making  the  Imperialists  courageous. 
Each  army  had  agreed  to  fight  next  day.  Night  had 
come  over  the  tower  of  Mirabello,  from  which  Mont- 
morency  had  made  the  bodies  of  its  defenders  dangle, 


100  MO.YA'  AXD   KXIGHT. 

because,  as  he  said,  "they  had  resisted  a  royal  army  in 
a  hencoop."  Darkness,  broken  in  upon  by  Uu-  starlight, 
half  concealed  the  great  walls  which  surrounded  the 
park. 

A>  Ami  sat  there  in  the  star-lit  night  watching  with 
one  whom  he  so  deeply  loved,  filled  with  inspiring  rec- 
ollections of  the  night  before  the  battle  of  Marignano, 
and  impressed  with  the  importance  of  what  he  foresaw 
was  to  be  known  in  history  as  the  battle  of  Pavia,  the 
king  suddenly  turned  to  the  young  knight,  and  said, — 

"  You  believe  me  to  be  surrounded  by  bad  advisers." 

"  I  have  not  said  so  much,"  was  the  swift  reply.  "  Hut 
I  have  thought  your  knowledge  of  my  loyalty  and  love 
would  allow  the  truth  to  be  spoken  concerning  the  meas- 
ures and  methods  proposed  to  you,  Sire." 

The  moon  looked  clearly  upon  the  fearless  and  affec- 
tionate honesty  of  the  young  knight.  Francis  I.  was 
charmed  with  his  superb  appearance.  Ami  had  resolved 
to  remain  in  the  saddle,  even  if  the  sovereign  slept.  He 
was  mounted  upon  a  noble  charger,  which  was  as  un- 
wearied as  his  gallant  rider.  One  of  the  squires  held  the 
rein,  which  was  at  that  instant  relaxed.  Ami  was  clad  in 
complete  armor.  Every  incidental  word  or  motion  in- 
dicated his  readiness  to  dismount,  as  was  the  custom, 
and  leave  his  horse  in  charge  of  one  of  the  infantry, 
while  he  fought.  The  golden  spurs  and  the  white  girdle, 
which  latter  Nouvisset  had  asked  Astr£e  to  place  around 
his  loins  when  he  left  Chambord,  seemed  instinct  with  a 
nervous  vitality.  His  helmet  detained  the  silvery  light, 
as  the  beams  played  upon  its  glittering  surface.  Beneath 
his  cuirass  was  beating  a  heart  which  now  had  but  two 
impulses,  then  made  one,  —  love  for  Astr£e  and  loyalty 
to  the  king.  Jealousy  of  the  detested  English  monk  had 
driven  conscience  from  the  field  of  his  emotions ;  and 
jealousy  had  gone  away  after  conscience  in  hot  pursuit. 
He  was  not  interested  in  Reformers  or  Reformations.  The 


PAVIA.  IOI 

Waldensian  within  him  slept  in  the  stalwart  ambition  of 
the  knight.  As  Francis  I.  gazed  upon  his  companion, 
he  still  believed  that  though  Chevalier  Bayard's  race 
had  been  run  with  this  young  Bayard,  he  could  even  yet 
rekindle  the  expiring  embers  of  chivalry. 

"  I  did  venture  to  say,"  remarked  Ami,  "  that  it  ap- 
peared to  me,  Sire,  that  your  soldiers  should  have  been 
drilled  by  their  commanders." 

"  Drilled?"  asked  the  king,  — for  at  that  hour  in  the 
history  of  war  it  was  a  new  idea  that  such  a  regulation 
should  be  imposed  upon  officers  —  "  drilled  ?  Did  you 
say  it?" 

"  Every  man  should  know  his  pike  or  bow  or  arque- 
busier,  —  every  man  should  be  known  for  ill  or  good  in  a 
crisis  like  this." 

"  You  do  not  see  victory  —  " 

"  Except  in  trained  soldiers  who  have  not  been 
gathered  by  force  or  by  money,"  interjected  the  knight. 
"  Courage,  my  king,  is  born  of  love  and  loyalty ;  and 
even  courage  needs  to  be  trained  to  its  task.  We  are 
on  the  way  to  a  new  era  in  the  history  of  military  af- 
fairs, Sire." 

"Ah!"  said  the  king,  betraying  his  somewhat  sleepy 
condition,  "  you  and  Nouvisset  would  make  many  revo- 
lutions. What  else,  Ami?" 

"  If  the  contest  does  not  come  at  dawn,  I  would  have 
your  Majesty's  mercenaries  so  disposed  that  they  would 
not  dare  to  abandon  their  king  and  the  nobles  of  France, 
even  if  they  desired." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  king,  "  you  have  lost  faith  in  human 
nature,  —  first,  in  the  good  sense  and  skill  of  commanders, 
such  as  mine ;  then,  also,  in  the  soldiers  themselves." 

"  Nay,  my  king,  nay  !  I  never  have  had  any  faith  to 
lose  in  purchasable  human  nature." 

"  Nouvisset  was  a  mercenary,"  said  his  Majesty, 
sharply. 


IO2  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  His  love  for  you,  his  loyalty  to  France,  however, 
have  never  been  purchasable,"  was  the  answer.  "He 
loves  the  king  and  France." 

"What  else?"  said  Francis  I.,  as  he  scowled  upon 
Ami,  and  then  yawned  with  royal  earnestness. 

Ami  sat  more  knightly  than  before,  peering  out  into 
the  shadows  which  were  a  little  disturbed  by  the  starlight, 
and  he  said  wistfully, — 

"  I  hope  the  captains  have  not  overestimated  the 
number  of  men  under  the  standard  of  your  Majesty. 
Every  man  should  have  been  counted." 

"  Still  you  distrust  somebody  !  "  said  the  tired  king, 
with  petulance.  "  It  must  appear  to  you  that  my  cap- 
tains have  some  interest  in  exaggerating  the  strength  of 
my  army." 

"They  have  truly,  Sire!"  was  the  reply, — a  reply 
which  never  left  the  mind  of  the  King  of  France,  until 
more  than  a  year  later,  his  army  was  placed  under  a  finer 
military  administration. 

"  You  are  peering  into  a  bog  of  heavy  shadows,  Ami. 
Come,  cheer  up  !  This  is  another  Marignano.  We  shall 
go  to  Bologna  again  and  get  another  ring,  I  pledge 
you  !  "  Upon  the  face  of  the  king  was  a  coerced  smile. 

Ami,  by  the  instincts  of  his  mind  and  by  Now' 
culture,  had   a  certain   mastery  of  the   science  of 
He  said  nothing.     The  moon  was  hid  again  behind  the 
clouds. 

"  Be  careful  of  your  person,"  urged  Ami,  as  he  strained 
his  gaze  far  over  to  the  wall  of  Mirabello,  where  he  was 
now  sure  that  what  he  had  descried  was  only  the  light 
playing  with  the  shadows. 

"  And  you  are  a  knight  ?  " 

"  And  a  lover  of  my  king  !  "  was  Ami's  answer. 

Nothing  burdened  the  mind  of  Francis  I.  as  did  the 
defection  of  six  thousand  Orisons,  upon  whom  he  had 
relied. 


PA  VI 'A.  103 

While  the  king  cursed  them,  Ami  thought  of  the 
speech  of  Cardinal  Sion  to  the  Swiss,  before  the  battle 
of  Marignano,  in  which  that  fierce  orator  told  them, 
"  Ye  are  the  distributors  of  sovereignty  !  " 

Could  it  be  that  at  length  Europe  had  passed  into  the 
hands  of  a  rising  democracy? 

Ami  started,  as  again  the  lights  and  shadows  moved 
yonder.  It  was  two  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Feb- 
ruary 24. 

"  Only  the  flashes  of  dawn,"  said  Bonnivet,  as  he 
turned  away. 

"  Nay  !  "  exclaimed  Ami.     "  They  are  soldiers  !  " 

It  was  true.  Pescara  had  broken  down  nearly  fifty 
fathoms  of  the  wall;  and  three  thousand  German  and 
Spanish  troops,  —  each  man's  armor  covered  with  a 
white  shirt,  —  trusting  to  the  interval  of  darkness,  .had 
accompanied  the  vanguard  under  Guasto,  and  had  stolen 
forth  to  save  the  garrison. 

Instantly  the  French  cannon  poured  a  flame  of  death 
upon  them. 

"  Scatter  and  flee  !  "  cried  Guasto,  as  the  fire  divided 
the  columns. 

"  They  flee  !  they  flee  !  "  shouted  Francis,  when  he 
beheld  the  falling  enemy.  "  Charge  !  "  cried  he,  as  he 
descried  the  foe  clambering  upon  the  bank. 

Down  upon  them  swept  the  impetuous  sovereign  of 
France.  Ami  alone  urged  him  to  refrain  from  exposing 
his  person.  Dead  at  the  king's  feet  fell  the  Marquis 
Civita  San  Angelo.  The  enemy's  advance-guard  was 
broken.  The  men-at-arms  about  him  were  stung  with  in- 
dignation at  Ami,  who  twice  had  prevented  his  sovereign 
from  advancing  beyond  his  own  guard. 

"The  lanzknechts  are  unprotected  !  "  cried  Ami. 

"  Cut  him  down  for  his  contumacy  !  "  shouted  Admiral 
Bonnivet,  who  struck  at  the  knight. 

"  I  would  fain  call  myself  «  Duke  of  Milan  '  ! "  said  the 


104  .VP.VA"  A\D 

haughty  king,  as  he  broke  through  a  corps,  with  the 
brother  of  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand,  Lescun,  at  his  side. 

"  The  soldiers  of  his  Majesty  are  between  their  guns 
and  their  foes  !  "  said  Ami ;  "  this  ought  not  to  be." 

Ami  was  as  helpless  and  sorrowful  as  he  was  brave 
and  faithful. 

At  that  moment  Pescara  threw  nearly  two  thousand  of 
his  arquebusiers  upon  the  French.  Horses  and  riders 
struggled  in  death,  while  the  arquebusiers  fell  back  to  re- 
new their  attack  upon  the  gendarmerie.  The  king  and  his 
troop  now  masked  the  French  batteries  by  persistently 
fighting  in  front  of  them.  The  unprotected  lanzknechts 
were  cut  to  pieces  by  the  Germans  whom  Pescara  had 
hurled  upon  them.  Montmorency  was  abandoned  by 
the  Swiss  and  captured  by  the  vanguard  of  Guasto,  who 
had  .now  thrown  his  forces  into  the  gap  which  the  King 
of  France  had  created. 

Ami  defied  the  hirelings  of  Bonnivet,  as  he  urged  the 
king  to  unmask  his  guns.  All  around  the  sovereign  the 
foe  was  creating  a  bloody  plain.  Horses  and  knights, 
broken  arms  and  bloody  helmets,  were  piled  about  his 
Majesty.  Antonio  de  Leyva  soon  joined  Pescara  with 
the  garrison. 

At  length  Due  d'Alencon,  Marguerite's  husband  and 
Bourbon's  puny  successor,  instead  of  coming  to  the 
rescue  of  Francis,  left  the  field,  and  carried  the  rear- 
guard of  the  king  in  retreat.  Marot  and  Henry  d'Albret 
were  prisoners ;  La  Pallisse,  La  Tremoille,  Chabannes, 
Chaumont,  and  Francis  de  Duras  were  slain. 

"  My  God  !  "  said  the  king,  "  what  is  all  this?  " 

"  I  cannot  endure  this  disaster,"  cried  Bonnivet,  who 
raised  his  visor  and  fell  mortally  wounded. 

"  Ah,  wretch  !  "  hissed  Bourbon,  who  on  pressing  near 
had  forgotten  all  the  other  sins  of  Bonnivet  in  his  remem- 
brance that  he  had  aspired  to  the  love  of  Marguerite, 
and  who  at  that  moment  saw  his  enemy's  corpse.  "  Thou 


PA  VI A.  105 

hast  cheated  me  of  making  thee  my  prisoner;  thou  hast 
ruined  France  and  me  !  " 

The  king's  three  wounds  were  bleeding  profusely,  but 
now  and  then  he  was  able  to  cut  down  an  assailant. 
His  huge  sword  at  length  became  heavy  in  his  hands, 
though  he  compelled  one  of  the  foe's  standard-bearers 
to  groan  in  death  beneath  his  Majesty's  horse.  The 
king's  courage  was,  however,  departing,  while  the  in- 
trepid Ami  was  defending  his  master  on  every  side. 

"  You  are  a  Bayard,"  said  Francis,  with  gratitude ; 
and  then  with  sorrow  he  added,  "  Ah,  Bayard  !  had  you 
been  here,  this  had  not  happened  !  " 

They  had  turned  toward  the  bridge  over  the  Ticino. 
It  was  broken  down.  A  blow  on  his  horse's  head  made 
the  beast  reel  and  stagger  to  the  earth.  The  Spaniards 
crowded  about  him,  as  the  king  stood  by  the  side  of  his 
dying  charger,  and  smote  his  face.  The  golden  lilies 
blazed  upon  his  coat  of  mail.  In  the  storm  of  battle  his 
thick  plumes  still  nodded  defiance.  No  one,  save  Ami, 
knew  him,  as  he  fought  man  after  man,  until  Seigneur  de 
Pomperan  —  a  refugee  with  Bourbon  —  came  near,  and 
helping  Ami  to  drive  the  rough  soldiers  from  the  king, 
urged  him  to  surrender  to  Bourbon,  who  was  in  sight. 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  honor  a  traitor  ! "  replied 
the  bleeding  French  Sovereign.  "  Send  the  Viceroy  of 
Naples  !  I  will  surrender  to  him." 

Francis  I.  was  soon  a  prisoner.  Lannoy  held  his 
sword. 

"  Oh,  Ami,"  sobbed  the  great  broken  heart,  as  Francis 
commanded  him  to  bear  the  words,  "  All  is  lost,  save 
honor  !  "  to  his  mother,  Louise  of  Savoy,  —  "  oh,  Ami, 
if  I  had  heeded  your  words  !  Do  not  avenge  yourself 
on  me,  by  preventing  my  frank  speech.  Ami,  had  I 
obeyed  your  words  I  had  been  a  victor,  and  Bourbon 
had  become  my  prisoner.  Farewell !  The  astrologer 
said  it !  "  - 


IO6  MOXK  AXD  KXJGHT. 

As  Ami  turned  to  go,  —  for  the  king's  desire  was  not 
to  be  changed  by  Ami's  pleading  to  accompany  him,  — 
another  kind  of  message  from  the  Abbot  of  Najara  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  a  courier,  who  was  to  bear  it  to 
the  Emperor  Charles  V. 

"Twenty-five  years  ago  to-day,"  so  ran  the  language, 
"  your  Majesty  is  said  to  have  been  born.  It  is  the  day 
of  the  Feast  of  the  Apostle  Saint  Matthias.  Twenty-five 
thousand  times  thanks  and  praise  to  God  for  His  mercy  ! 
From  this  day,  laws  for  Christians  and  Turks  must  be 
prescribed  by  you." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LA  TORRE. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder ;  the  firm  land 
Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Oh,  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy  sons,  — 
The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth ; 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin  and  all 
Its  long-upheld  idolatries  shall  fall. 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  oppressed, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 

BRYANT. 

WHILE,  on  the  soil  of  Pavia,  a  haughty  and  un- 
intelligent king  was  passing  into  servitude  unto 
Charles  V.,  the  cause  whose  demands  he  had  at  first 
invited,  then  forgotten,  and  at  length  scorned,  was  ac- 
quiring sovereignty  throughout  Europe.  His  Imperial 
Majesty  Charles  V.  himself  had  not  yet  even  measured 
swords  with  the  Reformation,  though  he  had  fancied 
Francis  I.  to  be  the  most  important  prisoner  his  armies 
might  capture.  Francis  himself  had  not  yet  even  awak- 
ened to  the  majestic  power,  the  neglect  of  which  was  to 
make  his  reign  a  most  brilliant  failure,  though  he  imagined 
himself  to  have  been  defeated  by  the  most  resistless  force 
of  the  sixteenth  century. 


108  HfO.YA'  A\D    KXIGIIT. 

There,  near  La  Torre,  upon  a  maiden's  face  quivered  a 
splendor  more  majestic  than  that  upon  the  crown  of  the 
emperor;  and  yonder  in  the  mountains  of  Switzerland 
was  seen  a  glow  which  that  Swiss  army  knew  not,  when 
in  their  presence  the  King  of  France  was  knighted  by 
Bayard  at  Marignano. 

"  Si  el  non  vol  cum  la  fe  las  obras  acabar 
La  corona  de  gloria  nones  degne  le  portar." 

These  dear  old  words,  which  had  been  repeated  by  her 
forefathers  so  often  when  they  found  themselves  likely 
to  forget  that  faith  without  works  is  dead,  had  just  come 
from  Alke's  lips,  as  full  of  the  rippling  melodiousness  of 
her  soul  as  was  the  mountain  brook  of  the  harmonies  of 
summer.  She  was  p.is>ing  under  the  heavy  shadow  of  the 
great  cliff  to  pluck  another  blossom  which  had  attracted 
her  eye. 

The  fever  was  raging  in  the  neighborhood  of  ( Caspar 
Perrin's  cottage  as  never  before.  Every  day  the  lay- 
representatives  of  the  haughty  Church  repeated  to  the 
affrighted  denizens  of  that  hitherto  lovely  valley  the  asser- 
tions of  the  priesthood  that  this  virulent  disease  would 
not  abate  until  the  Barbes  and  the  fraternities  yielded 
their  submission  to  the  Pope.  Poor  mothers,  the  bodies 
of  whose  children  had  been  recently  hidden  from  their 
sight,  were  met,  as  they  fell  to  weeping  at  the  graves,  by 
these  papistical  emissaries,  who  assured  them  that  the 
monks  had  the  tenderest  sympathy  for  them  in  their  be- 
reavement, but  that  nothing  could  be  done  to  relieve  the 
valley  from  the  presence  of  the  plague  until  the  authority 
of  the  Vicar  of  God  was  recognized. 

"  You  dare  not  claim  the  right  to  sacrifice  your  inno- 
cent children,"  said  one  of  them  to  an  affrighted  woman 
who  had  stolen  away  from  her  cottage  to  visit  a  little 
grave  under  the  hillock.  "  You  know  their  lives  are  not 
yours  to  give  as  an  offering  to  your  wicked  rebellion 


LA    TORRE.  109 

against  the  Holy  Father.  You  may  slaughter  yourself 
only  with  peril  to  your  soul,  but  with  what  more  dreadful 
peril  do  you  kill  your  little  ones  !  " 

Many  a  mother's  heart  stopped  beating  while  these 
implied  maledictions  hung  over  her  head ;  and  many  a 
strong  man  whose  eyes  had  just  looked  into  the  yet  livid 
face  of  his  dead  child  for  the  last  time,  found  himself 
asking  questions  of  his  soul  such  as  never  occurred  to 
him  before.  The  redactor  —  the  senior  Barb£ — was 
absent,  and  Alke  felt  that  a  severe  trial  for  their  faith 
was  coming. 

Events  and  confessions  of  faith  have  often  jostled  un- 
easily against  one  another  in  the  life  of  mankind ;  and 
Alke,  who  was  now  a  sort  of  high-priestess  in  the  mind 
of  the  community,  saw  that  the  Waldensian  spirit,  which 
had  endured  much,  needed  a  mighty  strengthening  against 
these  horrible  experiences  and  the  sinister  suggestions 
of  the  Churchmen,  who  now  hung  about  the  sorrowful 
and  dying. 

"  Oh,  sister  and  beloved  !  "  cried  one  poor  woman, 
whose  only  son  lay  next  the  open  window,  with  the 
shadow  of  death  hovering  over  his  scarlet  cheeks,  "  oh, 
Alke,  I  could  believe  in  God  when  I  saw  the  priests 
burning  his  father  in  a  swift  flame ;  must  I  believe  in 
the  priests  when  I  behold  God  burning  his  child  in  the 
slower  fire?" 

The  spiritual  crisis  seemed  more  imminent  when  it 
was  noticed  that  even  Alke's  face  was  strangely  wan,  and 
her  eye,  full  of  weariness,  the  true  home  of  constant 
watchfulness  and  prayer,  was  becoming  unsteady  and 
sad. 

Oh,  how  the  infinite  abysses  of  loveliness  and  faith 
within  those  eyes  —  vast  deeps  which  entertained  the 
Eternal  One  —  appeared  to  have  grown  narrow  and  shal- 
low, as  she  had  looked  upon  the  lustrous  images  of 
death  in  those  children's  faces  !  Could  it  be  that  the 


1 10  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Lord  God  of  the  Waldensians  had  forsaken  her,  who 
sang  like  a  Miriam  in  yonder  cavern,  who  had  blessed 
little  ones  and  made  that  dedication  of  our  Lord's 
Prayer  at  the  communion  which  none  could  forget? 

These  awful  doubts  were  multiplying.  More  recently, 
and  especially  on  the  day  before,  Alke's  prolonged  ab- 
sences from  the  scenes  of  suffering  had  been  noticed 
with  an  unholy  dread. 

Had  God  so  forsaken  her  that  she  had  forsaken  them  ? 

True,  at  evenfall  she  had  brought  more  flowers  into  the 
homes  of  the  dying  than  ever  before.  Never  had  the 
pillows  on  which  the  children  gasped  for  breath  been  so 
irradiated  with  color ;  never  had  the  low  rooms  been  so 
fragrant  as  in  the  hours  just  gone.  But  death  had  been 
supreme  all  day,  and  she  had  been  away  so  long  ! 

"  Oh,  my  children  die,  and  the  flowers  wither  as  soon 
as  you  bring  them  !  "  sighed  Jeane  Person,  as  she,  whom 
some  called  the  "  angel  of  the  dawn,"  silently  went  out  of 
that  cottage  upon  that  very  morning  again,  a  tear  in  her 
sad  eye,  and  weariness  in  her  uncertain  step. 

A  knot  of  the  stricken  ones  in  the  roadway  —  some 
leaning  upon  the  breasts  of  big,  silent  men  who  looked 
perplexed,  others  looking  away  toward  little  graves  which 
had  been  made  by  the  side  of  the  tombs  of  fathers  and 
husbands  slain  for  a  faith  which  was  now  shaken  —  was 
seen  to  be  deeply  engaged  in  attending  to  a  rather  lo- 
quacious but  good- hearted  peasant -woman,  who  had  be- 
lieved in  God  and  Alke  up  to  that  very  hour.  Her  faith, 
however,  was  now  quite  gone. 

What  had  she  seen?  Enough  to  prove  to  her  that 
Alke  had  given  up  hope,  had  been  overtaxed,  was  prob- 
ably wandering  in  her  mind,  and  had  begun  trying  to 
hide  her  despair  in  aimless  flower-gathering. 

"  Oh,  I  could  see  it !  "  she  said. 

Before  this  chattering  woman  could  tell  her  story  of 
Alke,  a  solemn  son  of  thunder  threw  into  their  panic- 


LA    TORRE.  Hi 

stricken  souls  an  account  of  an  event  quite  calculated  to 
make  the  conquest  of  doubt  and  superstition  complete. 

There  is  no  such  scepticism  as  that  which  is  born  of 
superstition,  and  there  is  no  such  credulity  as  that  which 
nurses  at  the  breasts  of  doubt. 

"  A  child  has  been  cured,  —  a  child  of  Manel  Jan- 
ven,"  said  he,  with  a  voice  betraying  the  state  of  mind 
into  which  that  indubitable  fact  had  placed  him.  Other 
hearts  than  his  —  even  Manel  Janven's  —  were  wonder- 
ing which  was  the  direst  calamity,  —  the  loss  of  a  child 
with  still  a  fragment  of  faith  left,  or  the  cure  of  a  child 
and  all  one's  faith  gone  over  to  the  enemy.  That  event 
brought  with  it  this  fearful  dilemma.  For  every  one 
knew  that  one  of  the  priests  had  been  muttering  sen- 
tences and  exhibiting  relics  over  the  little  one ;  and 
now  —  they  had  heard  it  —  the  child  was  delivered  from 
the  plague. 

Nobody  asked  a  question.  Many  a  mother  listened 
to  hear  a  baby's  cry,  and  many  a  father  felt  a  sickening 
possibility  drinking  the  blood  out  of  his  heart.  Only 
the  mountaineer  with  grewsome  look  had  spoken.  Every 
one  else  wanted  to  speak.  Each,  however,  seemed  to 
feel  that  in  matters  of  belief,  as  in  affairs  of  practice,  it 
is  not  what  goeth  in  but  what  cometh  out  of  one's  soul 
that  defileth.  Silence  is  often  the  salvation  of  faith. 

How  desperately  they  struggled  to  keep  the  Walden- 
sian  faith  !  How,  also,  did  each  mother  feel  her  babe's 
eye  looking  up  into  hers  from  the  grave  by  the  torrent 
or  from  yonder  cradle  ! 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  they  knew  that  French  soldiers 
were  not  the  strongest  foes  of  belief.  An  unexplained 
fact,  coming  into  one's  creed  from  the  larger  equation  of 
life;  a  babe's  moan  which  finds  no  harmony  amid  all 
the  tones  of  one's  belief,  —  will  do  more  to  break  up  the 
accepted  equation,  or  to  destroy  the  accepted  tonic 
theory,  than  the  armies  of  a  world.  An  army  is  usually 


I  1 2  AfONAT  AND  KNIGHT. 

the  shadow  of  a  phantom ;  but  a  fact,  needing  no  army, 
must  make  a  place  for  itself.  No  creed  is  strong  enough 
to  disdain  the  smallest  fact. 

"  The  child  is  nearly  well,  and  laughs,  as  it  toddles 
around  about,"  repeated  this  man,  hardy  with  his  sense 
of  reality.  He  was  even  harsh,  as  every  soul  possessing 
a  fact  which  we  cannot  make  to  fit  into  our  scheme 
seems  to  be. 

"How  was  the  little  one  made  well?"  inquired  a 
brawny  man,  whose  throat  was  full  of  tremors,  as  he  tried 
to  speak. 

The  answer  was  as  pitilessly  accurate,  and  therefore 
as  thoroughly  inaccurate,  as  is  any  response  which  wor- 
ships what  we  call  "the  scientific  method," — a  method 
which  has  always  illustrated  its  unscientific  tendency 
by  so  stating  the  facts  of  which  it  does  know  that  it 
discounts  those  of  which  it  does  not  know. 

This  was  his  answer  :  "  The  priest  said  words  over  the 
sick  child.  The  priest  also  showed  relics  to  the  little 
one." 

It  was  a  true  account  as  to  everything  but  the  whole 
truth. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Caspar  Perrin,  who  for  a  few  moments 
had  stopped  with  the  circle,  "  I  could  tell  you  more  than 
that.  The  priest  fed  the  child  day  and  night." 

Caspar   turned   toward  his   cottage  wondering   if  he 
should    find   Alke.      Silence    again !      Another    fact,  — 
therefore  a  necessity,  perhaps,  for  another  equation  ! 

Think  you,  reader,  that  fhese  knew  how  increasingly  a 
genuine  Protestantism  must  always  have  that  experi- 
ence? "  Thy  heart  shall  fear  and  be  enlarged,"  must  be 
written  upon  the  soul  of  every  man  who  reveres  truth 
more  than  statements,  who  knows  that  institutions  and 
constitutions  are  less  large  than  man  and  human  life. 
The  bane  of  Churchmanship,  inside  of  Catholicism  and 
Protestantism  alike,  has  been  its  vigorous  necessity  to 


LA    TORRE.  113 

crowd  facts  into  predetermined  theories ;  the  work  of 
Christianity  is  everywhere  to  respect  facts  by  making 
theories  accordant  with  them.  It  is  a  large  universe 
which  we  inhabit;  and  so  large  and  rich  in  facts  it  is, 
that  the  ultimate  creed  will  never  be  written.  The 
protester  —  sometimes  by  necessity  a  protester  against 
Protestantism  —  will  always  have  his  work  to  do  in  this 
world. 

In  the  bewilderment  which  Caspar's  words  caused,  the 
garrulous  old  woman  began  to  tell  of  Alke's  wanderings, 
as  she  had  observed  them,  in  a  way  entirely  true  to  the 
facts  which  she  saw,  thoroughly  untrue  to  the  facts  which 
she  did  not  see.  Nobody  fancied  then  that  the  soul  most 
agitated  by  the  advent  of  all  these  facts,  and  indeed  the 
soul  most  sure  to  find  their  meaning,  and  thus  to  dis- 
cover their  harmony  with  the  old  facts,  was  that  of  this 
very  girl  Aike,  who  was  both  gathering  flowers,  and  hold- 
ing her  mind  to  the  facts  which  she  had  and  to  the  faith 
in  which  she  held  them,  while  she  labored.  Alke's  un- 
churchly  protestantism  against  an  uncomprehensive  creed 
was  healthier  far  than  theirs,  because  she  had  a  dim,  un- 
spoken faith  in  truth,  —  that  thing  which  guarantees 
that  whenever  one  has  discovered  two  facts  between 
which  there  seems  to  be  no  connection,  there  is  a 
certainty  that  a  third  exists  somewhere  which  will  relate 
them.  Alke  was  more  than  a  Waldensian.  She  had 
so  read  the  Greek  philosophy  that  her  rationalism  was 
Christian ;  and  she  felt  that  while  she  was  thus  waiting 
on  truth,  she  was  obeying  the  precept,  "Wait  on  the 
Lord." 

What  was  she  doing  in  the  defiles  between  the  moun- 
tains? Gathering  flowers  for  the  pillows  of  the  dying; 
gathering  facts  for  the  completion  of  her  creed.  How? 
By  obeying  a  noble  faith  in  truth  and  a  noble  impulse  to 
help  humanity. 

One  is  never  so  sure  of  a  complete  and  true  creed  as 

VOL.    II.  —  8 


H4  MONK'  AND   XX I  GUT. 

when  one  has  set  out  to  do  a  completely  and  truly  gen- 
erous act. 

All  that  the  old  woman  saw  was  this :  Alke  had  found 
a  Golden  Ball  which  her  eye  had  seen  in  a  dewy  meadow. 
In  that  air  above  her,  which  for  an  hour  had  hung  thick 
and  murky  with  storms,  she  had  gathered  around  that  tuft 
of  sunshine  the  harvest  of  beauty  from  the  height  and 
depth. 

"  Going  mad  !  "  had  whispered  the  woman,  as  she  saw 
Alke  digging  under  the  anemones  which  swayed  with  the 
huge  pines  overhead,  —  pines  in  which  just  then  the  daz- 
zling light,  breaking  through  the  gray  gloom  above,  swept 
like  a  dream,  and  left  every  tree  a  shivered  emerald. 
"  Going  mad  !  going  mad  !  " 

The  eye  of  despair  and  assured  wisdom  followed  Alke, 
as  she  grasped  a  bunch  of  ox-eyed  daisies  which  were 
curiously  defiant  of  the  darkness  when  the  sun  was  over- 
cast ;  and  stopping  only  to  dig  again,  as  it  seemed,  Alke 
pushed  on  toward  a  rhododendron,  which  surpassed  in 
depth  of  crimson  even  the  Alpine  roses  which  were  held 
in  her  girdle. 

"  She  is  eating  roots.  Ah  !  gone  mad  ?  Yes ;  gone 
mad  !  Alke  has  lost  faith  and  has  gone  mad,"  averred 
the  peasant-woman,  shaking  her  gray  locks  like  a  de- 
spairing prisoner. 

Still  had  the  sad  eyes  of  the  peasant-woman  followed 
Alke. 

Far  over  the  rocks,  where  the  noisy  torrent  plunged 
into  a  tumultuous,  wild  cascade,  flared  the  Kamblume, 
red  like*  a  torch,  as  if  to  light  the  rapid  way  of  the  dash- 
ing waters  at  night  and  to  outrival  the  stream  itself  in 
power  of  attraction  by  day.  There  was  Alke,  her  wan 
face  and  tired  eyes  seemingly  uninterested  in  the  glaring 
splendor.  As  she  dug  again  beneath  the  blossom,  and 
plucking  up  a  root,  tasted  it,  the  woman  on  the  rock  be- 
hind the  pines  whispered,  — 


LA    TORRE.  115 

"  Yes ;  poor  Alke  !  Gone  mad !  Does  the  Barbe 
know  it?  " 

Up  and  on  Alke  climbed,  the  eyes  of  the  older  woman's 
anxious  and  satisfied  thought  following  her,  until  she  and 
her  flowers  were  half  hidden  midst  the  weird  desolate  - 
ness  of  the  crags,  or  until  she  emerged  again,  like  a  lost 
spirit,  bent  on  finding  an  old  path,  only  to  reach  down 
into  that  summer  snow-field  of  Edelweiss,  even  beneath 
the  bloom,  to  the  dark  roots  below,  —  the  same  eyes  fol- 
lowing her,  tears  gathering  in  the  old  sockets  of  the 
gray  head,  until  Alke  stood  looking  out  over  the  valley 
beyond,  where  were  health  and  rejoicing,  where  Alke  saw 
girls  radiant  with  bright  ribbons  and  beautiful  in  white 
bodices,  and  whither  she  started.  In  a  moment  she  had 
left  the  perilous  crag  on  which  she  had  been  standing. 
She  slowly  withdrew  from  its  loneliness ;  and  there  it  stood 
out  alone  like  a  pedestal  bereft  of  its  glorious  but  pathetic 
'figure. 

This  was  all  that  the  talkative  woman,  then  almost  de- 
spoiled of  her  own  faith,  could  see.  She  had  told  it  over 
again.  Looking  again  through  her  eyes,  as  they  hud- 
dled together,  a  band  of  stricken  souls,  baffled  and  per- 
plexed in. belief,  this  was  all  they  saw  as  she  told  her  tale. 
"  Going  mad  !  gone  mad  !  Digging  in  the  ground  be- 
neath the  blossoms  !  Eating  roots  !  "  —  these  phrases 
they  heard,  as  they  silently  parted  and  went  away,  listen- 
ing to  the  crash  of  beliefs  within  their  own  breasts. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 
A  HEART'S  DISCONTENT. 

And  teach  impassioned  souls  the  joy  of  grief. 

CAMPBELL. 

TWO  sad  weeks  had  gone.  They  had  ended  in  a 
dawn-like  revelation. 

"  Who  said  it?  " 

"  Young  Gerard  Pastre,"  replied  Louis  Savan.  "  I 
ought  to  say  our  dear  Barbe,  I  suppose ;  but  we  are 
Waldensians,  and  fear  even  a  little  priestcraft.  Besides, 
Gerard  is  so  young." 

"  And  what  said  he,  Louis?  Do  not  keep  us  waiting  !  " 
urged  a  mountaineer. 

"  He  went  on  to  say,  —  Gerard  is  eloquent  sometimes, 
good  friends,  — he  went  on  to  tell,  as  I  cannot,  how  Alke 
herself  a  week  ago  was  trembling  for  her  own  soul.  You 
know  it  all.  Every  child  was  dying.  Every  mother  looked 
at  a  grave,  or  at  a  little  one  who  might  leave  her  for  its 
grave  in  a  day.  The  heavens  seemed  to  give  no  answer. 
Strong  men  among  us  doubted  God's  love.  The  priests 
swarmed  about  us,  taunting  the  men  and  inducing  the 
mothers  to  doubt  the  effacacy  of  our  faith,  and  to  believe 
that  God  was  punishing  us  for  rebellion  against  the  Pope. 
Then  came  the  cure  of  that  child  by  the  priest;"  and 
Louis  Savan  placed  his  hand  upon  the  head  of  Manel 


A   HEART'S  DISCONTENT. 

Janven's  little  child,  who  stood  before  them.  "  Could 
Heaven  have  made  a  more  awful  trial  of  our  faith?" 

"  And  then,"  said  Caspar  Perrin,  who  had  been  silent 
until  he  stumbled  in  his  speech,  — "  then  you  thought  my 
Alke  was  going  mad." 

"  Then,"  pursued  Louis,  whose  voice  shook,  as  he 
looked  about  in  vain  for  Alke,  "  she  was  in  the  hills 
hunting  for  herbs  and  roots,  —  God  bless  her ! "  and 
Louis  could  say  no  more. 

The  truth  was  that  on  that  holy  day  to  which  Louis 
Savan  referred,  the  service  of  thanksgiving  and  praise 
had  been  held.  As  he  and  those  about  him  came  home- 
ward, they  had  met  those  who  remained  to  guard  the 
flocks  and  cottages ;  and  Louis  Savan  was  telling  them 
of  Gerard  Pastre's  sermon. 

Gerard  Pastre,  who,  when  we  met  him  last,  was  leaving 
Alke,  as  her  quick  wit  ba.de  him  good-by,  in  the  hope 
that  he  might  become  a  Barbe,  had  soon  finished  his 
course  at  La  Torre,  and  was  now,  as  he  had  been  for  a 
year,  Coadjutor.  But  they  gratefully  remembered  that 
he  was  more  than  a  minister.  He  had  been  a  student 
of  medicine  for  months  before  he  was  sent  to  Witten- 
burg  to  see  Luther;  and  in  the  frightful  crisis  through 
which  the  faith  of  that  plague-stricken  community  had  just 
passed,  he  was  Alke's  constant  companion  and  successful 
co-laborer. 

How  radiant  appeared  the  day  after  such  a  night  of 
gloom  !  Even  the  little  graves  seemed  to  respond  in 
praise  of  this  deliverance  for  their  faith. 

The  facts  may  be  easily  guessed.  The  life  of  the  child 
of  Manel  Janven  had  been  spared,  not  because  the  priest 
had  held  before  it  a  relic  of  Saint  Ambrose,  not  because 
he  had  muttered  before  it  the  phrases  which  he  did 
not  understand,  but  because,  knowing  something  of  the 
disease  peculiar  to  the  region,  and  intelligent  of  the 
properties  of  the  root  which  grew  beneath  the  blossoms 


Il8  J/cMA"  .LVD  KNIGHT. 

that  decorated  a  certain  narrow  gulch  in  the  rocks  above, 
he  had  in  secret  fed  the  child  the  proper  medicine, 
which  he  had  craftily  prepared.  There  had  come  a 
speedy  cure.  The  priest  had  felt  every  confidence  that 
the  entire  fraternity  would  soon  f«»r>ake  their  opposition 
to  the  Church,  and  that  relic-worship  and  obedience  to 
the  Pope  should  be  re-established  in  that  region,  because 
it  was  a  guarded  secret.  No  one,  ncied,  saw 

aught  but  the  relics,  or  heard  aught  save  the  muttered 
words.  Who  could  doubt  the  miracle  and  the  efficacy 
of  the  relics? 

Alke  was  a  student  of  philosophies  as  well  as  a  pro- 
testing believer.  Far  in  advance  of  the  ideas  of  the 
Reformation  upon  these  topics,  had  the  Renaissance, 
which  swept  from  Venice  to  Caspar's  cottage,  lifted  this 
woman.  She  had  a  true  rationalist's  belief  in  facts.  She 
had  that  broader  Christianity  which,  to  the  vision  of  a 
reactionary  protestantism,  is  often  rationalistic,  because 
it  holds  every  fact  sacred.  With  a  religious  enthusiasm, 
she  began  to  search  for  causes.  Her  creed  she  trusted 
would  endure  at  least  one  more  fact.  It  must  endure  it. 

One  night  Caspar  had  sat  alone  until  daybreak.  In 
the  morning  on  which  the  peasant- woman  s.iw  Alke  dig- 
ging and  tasting  roots,  she  was  possessed  of  the  secret  of 
the  priest.  At  nightfall  she  had  Cod's  open  secret  in  a 
fact.  The  root  had  been  discovered.  At  the  end  of 
three  days  two  other  children  had  been  cured,  without 
relics  or  phrases  or  priests.  The  priests  had  suddenly 
departed ;  and  now  the  plague  was  stayed. 

"Angel  of  the  dawn!"  again  said  the  aged  Barbe 
whom  Alke  had  helped  on  his  way  to  the  communion, 
—  "  angel  of  the  dawn  !  " 

How  great  a  dawn  none  knows,  even  at  this  day,  lay 
in  the  soul  of  the  least  conspicuous  child  of  humanity, 
who  at  that  crisis  conceived  that  a  thoroughly  Christian 
creed  must  have  room  for  every  fact,  and  that  not  even 


A  HEART'S  DISCONTENT.  119 

the  new  vision,  which  was  protesting  against  the  old,  was 
ultimate.  The  historic  blunder  of  Protestantism  lies  in 
the  notion  that  the  Reformation  under  Waldo,  Wycliffe, 
Luther,  and  Calvin  was  complete  in  itself.  The  Renais- 
sance is  behind  and  within  all  thorough  reformation ; 
and  not  even  Waldensian  courage  must  be  allowed  to 
write  a  ne  plus  ultra  upon  the  gateway  of  the  mind. 
Perhaps  the  nineteenth  century  is  learning,  in  the  recon- 
struction of  much  dogma,  that  Luther's  Reformation 
allowed  too  little  place  for  the  forces  of  the  Renaissance. 

Alke  looked  at  the  world,  without  and  within,  with 
these  forces  in  her  heart.  "  Poor  girl  !  "  Caspar  had 
said  ;  "  with  this  revolution  in  her  bosom  !  But  she  has 
the  grace  of  God ;  and  that  may  make  her  happy,  even 
here." 

The  Reformation  —  the  Reformation  which  had  the 
Renaissance  behind  and  within  it  —  had  not  only  Luther 
within  it,  but  Bacon,  Cromwell,  and  Milton ;  and  as  a 
later  blossom,  Coleridge,  Browning,  even  an  Emerson. 
It  gave  the  human  brain  the  impulse  of  freedom  ;  and  its 
history  has  proved  the  conviction  true  that  nothing  is  as 
safe  as  liberty.  Protesting  has  not  yet  ceased ;  and  pro- 
testing has  come  to  be  constructive  rather  than  de- 
structive. In  this  woman's  soul  the  rationalistic  Greek 
spirit  had  come,  along  with  Luther's  Latinistic,  imperator- 
like  self-respect.  Therefore  there  were,  even  in  her  mind, 
germs  of  religious  thought,  and  notions  of  the  right  of 
the  soul  to  its  own  functions,  which  in  theology  have  flung 
upon  the  nineteenth  century  such  a  constructive  protester 
as  Maurice,  in  politics  such  a  constructive  reformer  as 
Lincoln. 

How  could  she  content  herself  with  her  environment, 
when  such  movements  swirled  in  her  brain?  Could  the 
grace  of  God  and  intellectual  vitality  suffice  ? 

There  is  no  such  agony  as  sits  at  the  gate  of  oppor- 
tunity and  lacks  power,  save  that  which  waits  with 


120  MOXK  AND  KNIGHT. 

power  before  a  wall  in  which  opens  no  opportunity  for 
its  exercise  and  ministry. 

"  How  useless,"  Alke  had  begun  to  say,  "  seem  knowl- 
edge of  language  and  enthusiasm  here  !  " 

It  did  not  help  her  to  be  told  by  Gerard  that  France 
dreaded  any  movement  which  looked  toward  the  popu- 
larizing of  the  Scriptures ;  but  Alke  connected  the  ideas. 
"  These  languages,"  said  she,  "  are  to  be  used  in  making 
the  Scriptures  an  open  book  to  all  the  world,  and  in 
explaining  them  to  the  nations.  I  ought  to  be  helping 
it  on." 

As  Caspar,  who  had  heard  this  conversation,  looked 
at  his  daughter  as  she  spoke  of  printing  the  Scriptures, 
the  fingers  of  both  his  hands  were  partaking  of  the  ex- 
citement of  his  mind,  which  was  dreaming  of  setting  the 
type  somewhere  for  a  cheaper  edition  of  the  Bible,  as  he 
had  formerly  helped  to  popularize  the  lines  of  Homer. 

It  was  nearly  1526. 

"  Would  that  I  could  set  the  types  ! "  said  Caspar. 

"Would  that  I  could  read  and  correct  the  printed 
leaves  !  "  said  Alke. 

But  even  this  aspiration  did  not  suffice.  Nay;  the 
grace  of  God,  intellectual  vitality,  fine  aspirations  never 
will  take  the  place  of  human  love  in  the  life  of  a  woman. 

Alke  wandered  out  into  the  sunshine  with  the  goats 
and  her  own  restless  heart.  Near  the  tiny  stream, 
where  the  grass  had  felt  constant  refreshing,  grew  the 
only  stem  of  monk's- hood  which  Alke  had  seen,  except 
the  solitary  specimen  which  her  father  had  once  brought 
to  her  from  the  high  pastures.  Its  absence  from  this 
floral  museum  often  seemed  grateful  to  him.  He  dis- 
liked everything,  even  in  Nature,  which  reminded  him 
of  a  priest.  The  valley  was  far  more  tolerable  to  his 
sensitive  enthusiasm  because  it  refused  to  grow  monk's- 
hood.  Alke  was  saying  this  over  to  herself,  while  she 
held  fast  the  copy  of  Luther's  "  Babylonian  Captivity  of 


A   HEAR  T'S  DISCONTENT.  1 2 1 

the  Church  of  God  "  which  the  young  Reformer  had  sent 
to  Caspar  Perrin.  She  sat  upon  a  rock  for  a  moment, 
with  the  rare  blossom  in  her  hand,  and  read  aloud 
the  concluding  words  of  this  heroic  man  :  "  I  hear  that 
bulls  and  other  papistical  things  have  been  prepared,  in 
which  I  am  urged  to  recant  or  be  proclaimed  a  heretic. 
If  that  be  true,  I  wish  this  little  book  to  be  part  of  my 
future  recantation." 

Alke  felt  a  strange  longing  in  her  heart. 

"What  is  love,"  said  she,  "but  this  yearning  to  be 
loved  by  such  a  soul?  What  is  it  also,  but  to  live  for 
such  an  one?" 

Poor  Alke  !  her  name  meant  "  yearning ;  "  and  she 
had  seen  but  few  men,  none  of  whom  touched  her  girlish 
affections. 

"I  am  too  young  to  think  of  loving  anybody,"  she 
added ;  and  then  she  gave  herself  up  to  that  most  ex- 
haustive passion  which  visits  the  heart  of  an  intellectual 
and  affectionate  girl,  —  the  consuming  desire  to  be  allied 
with  a  noble  and  great  soul.  Dreams  of  the  heroine  she 
would  be,  if  such  a  man  as  was  Wycliffe  should  ever 
give  her  his  heart;  visions  of  her  ceaseless  joy  in  suf- 
fering, if  only  she  might  go  with  a  Hus  to  his  couch  of 
fire  ;  pictures  of  the  rack  on  which  her  loveliness  would 
gladly  stretch  itself,  if  only  she  could  live  in  the  dying 
for  love  and  light,  —  these  broke  upon  her  as  the  soft 
air  played  upon  her  rosy  cheeks,  kissed  her  beautiful 
lips,  and  the  monk's-hood  blossom  dropped  from  her 
hand.  Love,  abstract,  ideal,  but  fiery  and  divine  love 
had  come  with  her  opening  womanhood.  The  girl  had 
thus  early  blossomed  into  the  glorious  flower  which 
yearned  for  its  sunshine.  For  a  moment  it  was  as 
though  she  had  found  a  gem,  and  had  set  it  in  gold. 
The  gem  she  would  not  possess;  the  setting  would 
abide,  and  it  would  always  demand  a  large  and  deep 
stone.  To  fall  deeply  in  love  with  an  ideal,  suggested 


122  MO\K  AND  K'XIGHT. 

by  some  reality,  makes  the  woman  incapable  of  being 
satisfied  with  less  than  a  hero.  This  was  to  be  the  fate 
of  Alke. 

She  stooped  to  pick  up  the  monk's-hood,  and  like  a 
girl  who  has  suddenly  felt  a  woman's  interest  without 
losing  the  girl's  ways  of  thinking,  she  said, — 

M  Well,  I  know  I  never  could  marry  a  monk.  They 
cannot  love.  If  they  dared  to  love,  it  would  be  only  to 
be  excommunicated.  They  have  sworn  not  to  love." 

Then  she  wondered  how,  if  any  monk  had  found 
surging  in  his  soul  these  oceans  of  affection  whose  ripples 
began  to  affect  her,  he  could  ever  help  loving.  She 
thought  it  would  be  wrong  to  try  to  imprison  such  divine 
feelings.  Religion  and  love,  she  was  sure,  moved  the 
world. 

"  No  !  a  monk  is  under  a  vow ;  but  Erasmus  said  to 
my  father  that  human  nature  cancels  vows.  Yet "  — 
and  she  crushed  the  monk's-hood  blossom  —  "I  could 
not  love  a  monk,  not  even  Salmani.  They  know  no 
books  but  manuals  of  monkish  prayer.  They  hate  Mas- 
ter Erasmus,  as  my  father  distrusts  him.  They  burn  the 
heretics,  and  they  killed  Ami.  They  may  kill  my 
father  !  " 

And  she  hurried  to  go  home,  taking  in  her  left  hand 
the  little  book,  and  in  her  right  the  flowers. 

Why  did  she  stop  ? 

She  suddenly  remembered  that  Salmani  was  not  blood- 
thirsty ;  that  Martin  Luther  was  a  monk,  and  Catherine 
Von  Bora  had  loved  him.  In  her  father's  conversation, 
in  her  own  conceptions,  they  two,  at  least,  were  saints. 
But  Luther  had  been  excommunicated? 

She  was  bewildered,  and  sure  of  only  one  thing,  that  a 
strange  yearning  possessed  her  very  soul.  The  problems 
of  the  heart  were  leaguing  themselves  with  the  problems 
of  Alke's  brain. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

SPIRITUAL    ENVIRONMENTS. 

Is  it  so,  O  Christ  in  heaven  !  that  the  highest  suffer  most  ; 
That  the  strongest  wander  farthest,  and  more  hopelessly  are  lost ; 
That  the  mark  of  rank  in  nature  is  capacity  for  pain, 
And  the  anguish  of  the  singer  makes  the  sweetness  of  the  strain  ? 

SARAH  WILLIAMS. 

OUR  information  of  the  progress  of  events  which 
affected  Ami  in  the  exciting  months  of  the  latter 
part  of  1525,  is  meagre  enough.  What  we  have  must 
be  obtained  from  a  conversation  which  occurred  later, 
on  the  evening  when  Ami's  old  friend  and  teacher  walked 
with  him  to  the  architect's  rooms,  where  Ami  was  to  in- 
spect with  care  the  plans  of  the  palace  of  Villars-Coteret, 
which  was  at  once  the  shrine  and  monument  of  the 
guilty  love  that  the  king  bore  to  Mme.  de  Chateau- 
briand. Seldom  did  Ami  have  the  pleasure  of  passing 
an  evening  with  his  friend,  so  constant  were  his  duties  to 
the  court ;  and  the  old  knight  was  as  pleased  with  this 
attention  as  Ami  had  been  to  bestow  it. 

Nouvisset  knew  well  the  reverence  in  which  Ami  held 
the  very  name  of  the  Queen  Claude,  whose  heart  had 
been  penetrated  by  the  last  earthly  agony,  dying,  as  she 
did,  with  the  early  June  flowers.  The  old  man  had  a 
certain  faith  that  the  influences  of  the  court  had  not 


124  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

entirely  unmanned  Ami,  though  he  had  begun  to  suspect 
that  .this  youth,  whom  he  knew  Francis  loved  for  his 
apparent  susceptibility  as  well  as  for  his  excellence,  had 
felt  within  him  a  manly  shame  at  the  mention  of  the 
name  Chateaubriand.  Ami  had  often  seemed  to  dodge 
him  in  their  conversation,  when  it  approached  her  to 
whom  Astree  was  an  adopted  sister. 

In  confidence,  Ami  had  once  said  that  he  was  often 
far  from  being  perfectly  happy ;  and  at  certain  moments 
Nouvisset  had  noticed  with  what  fervor  he  asked  curious 
questions  about  the  pure  streams  and  white  snows  near 
his  childhood  home.  The  old  man  thought  he  had  dis- 
covered within  this  longing  for  the  immaculate  snows 
and  crystal  waters  a  noble  revolt  against  the  stained  life 
of  the  court.  Nouvisset  himself  felt  that  all  the  elegant 
splendor  and  magnificent  pageantry  of  France  about 
him,  spotted  with  wrong  and  smeared  with  blood  as  they 
were,  were  but  decorated  falsities,  when  Ami's  voice 
trembled  with  his  own  emotions,  excited  by  the  vision  of 
a  nearly  forfeited  ideal,  and  especially  when  his  childlike 
simplicity  dissolved  the  spectacle  with  one  pure  breath. 

Each  had  been  made  the  recipient  of  royal  attentions 
that  day.  The  king  had  remembered  the  Greek  with 
a  purse  and  a  copy  of  "  Faustus  Andrelinus."  The  old 
knight  and  scholar  had  admired  the  copy  which  had 
been  presented  to  Louis  XII.  when  that  monarch  was 
travelling  in  Italy.  Francis  I.  had  obtained  another 
through  Grolier;  and  now,  bound  by  Geoffrey  Tory, 
bearing  the  salamander,  the  "  F,"  the  emblem  of  France, 
and  the  collar  of  Saint  Michael,  it  was  meant  to  complete 
the  happiness  of  this  gentle  and  faithful  servant.  Ami 
had  been  presented  with  a  pair  of  golden  spurs  of  most 
exquisite  workmanship,  bearing  the  initials  of  no  less  a 
knight  than  Gaston  de  Foix.  Often  had  he  wished  to 
possess  such  a  relic  of  the  chivalrous  youth  whose  con- 
summate heroism  never  seemed  so  sure  of  remaining 


SPIRITUAL  ENVIRONMENT.  125 

unsurpassed  as  when  Ami  felt  that  he  stood  amid  the 
decaying  splendors  of  knighthood  on  the  "  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold."  At  another  and  earlier  hour  the  gift 
would  have  completed  even  his  happiness. 

"A  happy  day,"  said  Nouvisset,  "a  very  happy  day  it 
has  been  for  us  both  !  "  Ami  was  silent ;  and  with  an 
evident  effort  at  persuading,  the  scholarly  old  knight 
said,  "  Indeed,  we  are  a  favored  and  happy  couple, 
Ami." 

"I  used  to  try  to  persuade  Queen  Claude  that  she 
was  the  happiest  of  human  beings,"  said  the  young 
knight,  deliberately.  "  I  shall  not  soon  forget  my  labors 
and  their  failures." 

"  Ami,"  said  the  old  Greek,  inquiringly,  for  he  always 
loved  gossip,  "  did  you  ever  try  to  get  her  to  love  Mme. 
de  Chateaubriand  ?  " 

It  was  an  unfortunate  utterance ;  or  rather,  perhaps, 
the  name  of  Chateaubriand  came  in  too  early  in  the  talk, 
and  therefore  the  moment  was  unfortunate.  Ami  was 
indignant,  then  dignified,  and  then  sensible.  He  had 
swiftly  concluded  that  to  show  his  anger  would  be  to 
confess  what  he  hated.  He  knew  that  the  preceptor 
had  not  meant  to  link  him  unpleasantly  with  the  Chateau- 
briands ;  and  if  he  seemed  to  take  offence,  the  tale 
would  be  told.  Terrible  again  did  he  find  it  to  meet  a 
fearless  knight,  and  to  be  clad  in  armor  so  thin  at 
certain  points. 

"  No,"  answered  Ami,  at  last,  without  giving  any  evi- 
dence that  his  mind  had  been  a  whirlpool ;  "  did  you 
know  Gaston  de  Foix?" 

The  transition  was  sudden.  Nouvisset  had  almost  got 
his  nose  into  Queen  Claude's  or  Mme.  de  Chateau- 
briand's apartments,  when  unfortunately  he  was  instantly 
confronted  with  the  bleeding  and  disfigured  corpse  of 
Gaston  de  Foix  on  the  battle-field  of  Ravenna.  Again 
he  lived  through  that  awful  day,  seized  the  king's  nephew 


126  MOXK  AXD  K'NIGHT. 

as  he  fell,  and  heard  Louis  XII.  say,  as  he  was  congrat- 
ulated upon  this  triumph,  "Wish  my  enemies  such 
victories  !  " 

Ami  knew  his  teacher  and  friend  perfectly.  The  last 
gleams  of  chivalry  were  dying  away  in  France,  as  were 
some  of  the  lights  in  the  old  Greek's  brain.  Ami  knew 
that  he  could  always,  at  least  for  a  moment,  stop  the 
pursuing  steps  of  this  learned  gossip,  when  he  had 
started  after  plunder,  by  recreating  some  scene  in  which 
his  chivalry  had  figured.  He  had  tried  it  this  time,  had 
succeeded,  and  now,  having  had  a  moment  to  recover 
from  his  disquiet  at  the  mention  of  the  word  "Cha- 
teaubriand," he  felt  prepared  to  humor  his  own  mood  of 
sadness  and  the  inquiring  appetite  of  his  friend,  by 
telling  him  all  about  the  interview  with  the  late  queen. 

As  the  old  knight  went  on  muttering  to  himself 
his  curses  on  the  Spaniards  at  Ravenna,  Ami  was 
thinking,  — 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  throw  off  this  annoying  feeling 
about  the  Chateaubriands  whenever  I  meet  my  old 
teacher  or  whenever  I  see  the  name,  I  might  find  pleas- 
ure in  him,  as  I  once  did.  But  I  do  love  Astr£e, 
though  she  is  called  sister." 

Love  ought  to  sanctify  everything,  as  it  seems,  to  our 
easy  sensibilities.  But  love  is  more  honorable  than  we 
are ;  and  love  refuses,  as  more  brightly  the  fires  burn,  to 
do  aught  but  illuminate  an  offensive  fact  out  of  which 
exhale  fever-laden  memories. 

Both  minds  finally  got  back  to  the  ill-used  queen,  and 
Ami  had  the  kindness  to  say,  "  Queen  Claude  was  not 
happy,  though  she  was  the  wife  of  Francis  I.  and  the 
mother  of  a  dauphin." 

'•  Alas  !  "  said  the  old  courtier,  "  I  was  present  in  the 
Chapel  of  St.  Germain-en- 1  ,ave  on  that  day  in  May. 
I  saw  the  black  robes  of  mourning  which  they  still  wore 
for  Anne  de  Bretagne.  I  knew  it  was  a  bad  omen." 


SPIRITUAL  ENVIRONMENT. 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  believe  in  omens  ! "  said  Ami,  while 
his  own  mind  recalled  the  event ;  and  he  rushed  on  to 
say,  "The  queen  had  a  sincere  love  of  purity,  a  just 
idea  of  truth,  and  she  found  herself  satisfied  with  what 
I  wish  could  satisfy  others." 

Ami  had  then,  for  the  first  time,  said  out  loud  to 
Nouvisset  that  the  confessors  and  bishops,  crucifixes  and 
masses,  abbots  and  popes,  to  which  the  queen  had 
directed  him  in  those  moments  when  he  believed  so 
little  and  thirsted  for  goodness  so  deeply,  had  failed  to 
satisfy.  He  saw  the  fine  eye  of  Nouvisset  gleam  with 
curious  intelligence,  and  heard  him  say  with  feeling,  — 

"Ami,  did  you  see  that  burning  of  the  hermit  of 
Livry?" 

There  was  indignation  in  the  tone  of  voice ;  and  for 
an  instant  the  form  of  the  old  scholar  stood  out  in  the 
clear  moonlight,  as  the  statue  of  Bruno  now  stands  out, 
the  embodiment  of  freedom  and  reform,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Vatican. 

The  scene  came  back  at  once.  Again  Ami  stood  in 
front  of  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame. 

"  I  saw  it.  I  see  it  yet.  I  shall  never  forget  it," 
replied  the  younger  knight,  looking  like  a  fearless  Puri- 
tan born  before  the  time;  and  as  his  voice  grew  more 
eloquent,  he  whispered  :  "  That  sickening  smell  of  burn- 
ing flesh  ;  the  dreadful  tolling  of  the  great  bell  ;  the  white 
soul  of  the  hermit  shining  out,  surpassing  the  brilliance  of 
the  flame  !  Saw  it  ?  Yes.  And,  my  knightliest  of  friends, 
I  say  to  you  what  I  dared  to  say  to  the  Duchesse  d'Alen- 
con  afterward,  if  this  infernal  kind  of  persecution  must 
be  carried  on  to  protect  the  Holy  Church,  I  would  rather 
see  the  cathedral  fall  and  bury  in  its  ruins  every  false- 
hearted priest  and  wicked  cardinal  in  Europe." 

"That  description,"  quickly  said  the  old  knight, 
"  would  include  almost  all  of  them.  We  must  not  wish 
to  depopulate  the  sacred  buildings.  But,  Ami,"  added 


128  MONK  AND   KXIGItT. 

he,  "you  have  said  enough  to  throw  you  into  the  same 
fire  if  Comte  de  Guise  knew  it ;  and  as  a  knight.  : 
you,  think  what  you  please,  but  hold  your  tongue." 

"Oh,"  said  Ami,  and  his  ;  .vould  that 

I  had  died  with  little  Alke,  if  my  fate  be  to  smile  on 
these  outrages  !  " 

"  My  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  who  put  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  "you  can  trust  me." 

"Ah,  yes;  I  have  trusted  you  this  night  with  my 
heart." 

"  And  tongue,"  added  Nouvisset.  "  But  answer  me 
this,  where  there  is  no  priest  between  us  and  the  great 
God  above, —  answer  me,  Ami!"  and  he  held  up  his 
tremulous  hand  pointing  to  the  quiet  stars.  ••  1  >i<l  you  set 
the  Duchesse  df  Alencon  to  the  task  of  helping  Farel,  — 
.n  William  Farel,  —  did  you  help  him  to  escape? 
You  know  he  has  gone  to  Gent 

Silence  like  that  above  Nouvisset's  hand  reigned  upon 
the  lips  whose  heat  had  cooled  perceptibly  under  the  old 
knight's  advice.  Ami  found  himself  confronted  with  a 
<iucstion  which  could  be  answered  by  a  monosyllable; 
but  never  before  seemed  so  praiseworthy  and  so  con- 
venient that  masterly  lying  through  half-truths  uttered  in 
royal  presences,  that  elegant  method  of  prevarication  with 
which  Ami  had  become  familiar  at  court,  but  which  had 
never  pleased  his  conscience.  The  eye  of  the  old  knight 
never  left  its  victim  for  an  instant,  while  Ami's  con- 
science, which  just  a  moment  before,  in  that  dangerously 
free  talk,  had  grown  stalwart,  thundered  at  the  gates  of 
speech  for  utterance. 

Why  should  he  be   afraid?     Because   he   had  been 
afraid  so  long.     Why  should  he   not  speak  as  his  re- 
enthroned  conscience  demanded?     Because  he  h 
often  silenced  conscience  in  the  courts  of  magnificent 
wirkolnrss.    He  was  afraid,  but  he  did  speak  the  truth. 

'•  Yes  !  "  he  almost  shouted  ;  then  bit  his  lip.    But  the 


SPIRITUAL  ENVIRONMENT.  129 

air  was  ambrosial ;  and  Nouvisset  thought  he  saw  before 
him  a  youth  whom  the  gods  loved. 

While  the  liberated  conscience  of  Ami  luxuriated  for 
an  instant  in  its  new-found  freedom,  toying  with  its  new 
crown,  and  the  young  knight's  breast  heaved  with  a  self- 
respect  he  had  never  known  before,  the  old  knight 
quoted  from  Menander  :  — 

6v  of  Qeoi  <pi\ov<Tiv  a.TrodvTJo'Kei  veos- 

Ami  was  not  at  all  disconcerted  at  this  prophecy  of  an 
early  death.  He  recalled  to  mind  what  he  had  heard 
some  one  quote  from  Chaucer  of  England ;  and  before 
he  remembered  where  he  had  heard  it,  he  had  repeated 
the  lines :  — 

"  And  certainly  a  man  hath  most  honour 
To  dien  in  his  excellence  and  flower." 

When  he  thought  of  that  hour  in  the  course  of  which 
those  lines  were  quoted  by  the  man  whom  he  now  de- 
tested with  an  intensity  greater  even  than  that  with  which 
he  abhorred  the  policy  of  the  Holy  Church,  a  pang  of 
mingled  jealousy  and  self-reproach  seized  his  very  soul ; 
and  it  was  not  eased  as  the  old  knight  laboriously  said,  — 

"That  sentence  was  quoted  by  that  diabolical  man, 
Brother  Vian,  and  must  be  as  false  as  he." 

The  irony  in  Nouvisset's  voice  was  very  keen.  Where 
was  the  sorrow  of  Queen  Claude,  about  which  they  had 
begun  to  talk  twice  in  vain?  Where  were  they? 

Nouvisset  had  not  changed  from  being  the  same 
elderly  sceptic  which  he  had  found  himself  to  be  years 
ago,  when  he  was  the  confidential  servant  of  Louis  XII. 
and  Queen  Claude  was  a  girl.  He  had  then  lost  all 
respect  for  the  character  of  priests ;  he  knew  the  Church 
to  be  foul,  and  the  mass  of  her  clergy  to  be  ignorant  and 
vicious,  or  shrewd  and  vile.  He  had  then  learned  how 
little  they  really  believed  of  the  elaborate  dogmas  which 
grew  longer  as  genuine  faith  decreased.  He  had  seen 
VOL  ii.  —  9 


130  /I/O  VA"  A. YD  KNIGHT 

with  horror  the  ever-intensifying  persecutions  of  the 
Reformers.  He  had  beheld  with  terror  the  rise  of  a 
papistical  party  bent  on  the  wholesale  murder  of  those 
who  would  protest  against  the  greed  and  villany  of  the 
clergy  and  the  arrogance  of  the  Pope.  Day  by  day  he 
had  hoped  to  find  the  truth  penetrating  the  mind  of 
Ami.  He  had  confidence  that  the  Waldensian  iron  in 
his  blood  would  some  day  feel  the  magnetic  touch  of 
these  Reformers. 

Of  course  he  dared  not  tell  Ami  that  his  father  and 
sister  had  not  been  killed.  That  would  have  been  untrue 
to  his  king.  He  also  had  a  dim  notion  that  Ami 
and  the  world  would  be  better  off,  if  he  remained  the 
beloved  subject  of  Francis  I.  He  did  not  enter  the  fight 
against  the  Reformers,  as  others  said,  because  he  was  old 
and  laid  by  ;  and  as  he  knew,  because  he  honored  their 
aims  and  wished  them  triumph.  He  did  not  fight  for 
the  Reformers,  because  he  was  a  foreigner,  had  come  to 
France  only  as  a  Greek  mercenary,  and  did  not  desire 
to  help  to  complicate  affairs  for  his  too  weak  and  wilful 
sovereign.  No;  he  was  not  in  the  fight,  for  he  was 
hardly  a  Christian.  His  interest  was  in  Ami,  in  knight- 
hood, which  might  revive  or  die  in  the  coming  struggle, 
in  elegant  letters,  in  the  Renaissance  ;  and  he  never 
forgot  that  he  was  a  Greek,  that  the  culture  of  Erasmus 
and  his  predecessors  who  had  initiated  this  great  revolu- 
tion in  the  brain,  before  it  had  touched  the  conscience 
of  Europe,  had  been  brought  to  Italy,  where  the  Re- 
naissance was  now  in  its  dotage,  by  Greeks  from  Con- 
stantinople. He  would  live  and  die  simply  a  Greek, 
who  had  been  of  service  to  two  French  kings,  —  a 
Greek  who  had  lost  what  faith  he  had  acquired  in  the 
Holy  Church,  who  believed  in  reformation  by  means  of 
scholarship  rather  than  by  Masses  or  grace,  and  who  was 
glad  to  see  Ami  terribly  unsettled  and  indignant. 

Ami,  on  the  contrary,  had  gone  a  tremendous  distance 


SPIRITUAL   ENVIRONMENT.  131 

in  the  experience  and  culture  of  a  soul.  He  was  more 
than  unsettled  and  indignant.  Conscience  had  been  re- 
enthroned,  Oh,  how  like  an  undisputed  and  regent 
power  she  sat  in  the  soul  of  Ami  again,  when  he  dis- 
covered that  he  had  actually  told  a  human  being  of  the 
feelings  he  had  when  the  hermit  of  Livry  was  burned, 
and  of  the  fact  that  William  Farel  escaped  death  and 
fled  to  Geneva  through  aid  from  the  Duchesse  d'Alencon 
and  himself ! 

The  fact  that  he  had  spoken  seemed  to  have  atoned 
for  the  whole  past ;  and  it  was  only  when  he  had  made 
that  blunder  in  quoting  words  which  to  his  mind  had 
been  actually  soiled  by  the  lips  of  Vian,  that  he  lost 
sight  of  the  heroic  moment.  Conscience  was  enthroned, 
truly ;  but  when  such  passionate  hate  burns  in  the  soul, 
the  throne  of  conscience  may  prove  inflammable. 

Ami,  beware  that  thou  dost  not  lose  the  height 
which  thou  hast  reached,  in  thy  search  for  Vian's 
life  ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   BELEAGUERED   CASTLE. 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind.  —  In  Mcmoriam. 

NOW  the  conversation  turned  to  Queen  Claude  and 
her  sorrows  with  a  graceful  ease.  Two  great 
and  moving  energies  had  met  in  Ami's  mind,  —  his  in- 
dignation at  the  Church  and  his  abhorrence  of  Vian,  — 
and  so  nearly  equal  in  power  were  they,  that  his  mind 
was  at  rest,  and  ready  for  the  topic  which  they  had  left. 
He  was  glad  to  begin  again. 

"  As  I  said,  the  gracious  queen  really  loved  the  true 
and  good  wherever  she  saw  it." 

"She  would  have  loved  to  be  loved,  too,  think  you 
not?"  said  the  old  man,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes  !     Women  are  so  like  —  " 

"  So  like  men  in  that  respect,"  broke  in  Nouvisset. 

"  T  is  true  !  So  much  does  the  human  soul  crave 
affection,"  said  Ami. 

"  So  much,  my  boy,"  added  the  old  knight,  "  that 
a  man,  full  grown  and  a  knight,  will  often  yield  to  those 
caresses  of  love  which  he  did  npt  at  first  respect." 

Things  of  interest  were  getting  far  away  from  Queen 
Claude  again,  and  they  were  getting  perilously  near 
to  Ami's  personal  life.  Could  it  be  possible  that  his  old 
friend  and  teacher  suspected  that  his  relations  to 
Astr£e  had  really  so  issued  as  to  cause  this  genuine 
embarrassment  ? 


A   BELEAGUERED   CASTLE.  133 

Ami  was  perplexed  at  his  own  condition.  Ashamed 
that,  by  the  influence  of  Francis  I.  and  Mine,  de  Chateau- 
briand, he  had  been  led  into  what  seemed  to  many,  even 
to  Nouvisset,  an  intrigue,  he  was  also  more  deeply 
ashamed  that  he  did  not  like  to  have  any  Chateaubriand 
lightly  spoken  of,  so  truly  had  the  holiest  affection  sprung 
up  within  him  in  the  midst  of  circumstances  unsavory. 
Oh,  how  the  clouds  overlapped,  though  the  sunlight  did 
struggle  between  !  Ami,  however,  instantly  appreciated 
the  situation ;  and  he  had  so  found  the  habit  of  being 
honest  a  pleasant  one,  that  he  replied,  — 

"  So  much,  my  honored  friend,  do  we  need  love,  that 
no  unpleasant  beginning  which  it  may  have,  can  drive  it 
from  the  breast  of  a  true  knight." 

The  speaker  was  relieved. 

"  Ami,  you  have  more  trouble  on  your  hands  than  you 
think,"  said  Nouvisset. 

"  I  have  always  found  it  so ;  and  I  find  it  harder  than 
I  supposed  it  would  be,  to  tell  you  anything  about  the 
queen." 

"Perhaps  because,"  said  Nouvisset,  slyly,- — "because 
we  have  other  people  and  other  facts  in  our  minds. 
Even  a  queen,  especially  if  she  is  dead  and  buried,  has 
a  hard  time  in  expelling  lesser  people  from  the  brain, 
if  one  really  loves  them." 

There  was  no  dodging  this  kindly  thrust.  It  opened 
the  steel  coat-of-mail  about  Ami's  soul,  and  Nouvisset 
could  see  his  heart  beat  wildly. 

"What  can  you  mean?  "  said  the  young  man,  with  no 
meaning  whatever  in  his  question. 

Nouvisset  was  a  knight ;  and,'  like  a  gentleman,  he 
allowed  his  antagonist  a  moment  of  relief,  which  was 
still  more  pleasant  to  the  younger  knight  when  he  found 
that  the  elder  would  not  take  an  undue  advantage,  and 
when  he  heard  him  say,  — 

"You  have  spoken  of  'the  true  knight,'  and  of  what  he 


134  MONK  A\D   h'XIGHT. 

would  not  drive  out  of  his  breast.  I  am  sure  you  did 
not  learn  of  those  things  from  me.  You  are  farther 
along  than  my  unworthy  teaching  has  taken  you.  But 
I  know  the  king  gave  you  that  *  Book  of  the  Order  of 
Chivalry,' printed  by  the  English  Caxton  in  1484,  —  an 
eloquent  book  it  is ;  and  you  have  read  the  words  :  '  Oh, 
ye  knights  of  England,  where  is  the  custom  and  usage 
of  noble  chivalry  that  was  used  in  those  days?'  Those 
days,  Ami,  make  a  knight  of  to-day  homesick  for  his 
ancestor's  coffin.  Then  you  do  not  forget,  I  see,  the 
Augsburg  folio,  '  Consilium  Buch,'  and  the  inspiring 
legends  on  the  coat-of-arms.  Oh,  my  boy,  we  wonder 
that  the  forefathers  of  these  velveted  ninnies  who  would 
ruin  a  virgin  as  they  would  kill  a  hare,  do  not  rise  from 
their  graves  and  snatch  the  armorial  relics  away  from 
unworthy  men  '.  " 

The  old  knight  looked  like  a  living  combination  of  the 
hero  and  the  saint,  as  he  grew  more  eloquent.  Ami  was 
silent.  They  had  wandered  away  from  the  city,  and 
stood  in  the  moonlight,  under  the  mulberry-trees,  while 
the  scholarly  courtier  spake  on. 

"  I  know  not  when  I  besought  you  to  read  good  Sir 
Thomas  Mallory's  translation  of  King  Arthur's  Histories, 
and  asked  you  to  read  again  and  again  what  Caxton 
spake,  *  Do  after  the  good,  and  leave  the  evil ;  and  it 
shall  bring  you  good  fame  and  renown,'  that  you  would 
so  soon  find  injustice,  cowardice,  hate,  and  even  murder, 
guarded  by  chivalry,  at  the  king's  court." 

'•  My  guide  !  did  you  not  say  something  to  me,  a 
minute  since,  about  the  danger  of  talking  freely  about 
cardinals  and  their  like?  Is  it  safer  to  decry  a  king? 
The  king  is  my  friend,  you  know,  and  yours." 

These  last  words  Ami  uttered  with  a  voice  which  had 
become  used  to  contrary  emotions.  He  betrayed  the  fact 
that  with  his  love  for  the  king,  he  had  a  conscience, 
and  a  love  for  Nouvisset.  No  other  man  could  have 


A   BELEAGUERED   CASTLE.  135 

spoken  those  words  about  the  king's  court  with  safety, 
though  Ami  knew  the  truth  which  they  conveyed  was 
indisputable. 

"  I  know  you,  my  boy,  and  I  know  Francis^  King  of 
France  also.  I  am  now  an  old  man.  I  have  not  much 
to  lose,  but  I  would  give  up  my  life ;  if  every  knight 
in  France  were  chivalrous.  The  word  '  gentleman  '  is 
cursed  with  suggestions  of  a  soft  gentleness  which  se- 
duces and  damns." 

The  old  man  turned  from  the  face  of  his  companion ; 
there  was  something  in  his  eye  brighter  than  the  silver 
livery  of  battle.  It  was  a  tear  shed  over  the  decay  of 
knighthood. 

The  young  man  was  on  the  point  of  explaining  what 
he  meant  when  he  used  the  phrase  "  the  true  knight." 
He  had  enjoyed  speaking  honestly  to  his  friend,  —  he  had 
never  dared  do  so  with  the  clergy,  the  dukes,  or  the 
king.  Only  once  did  he  ever  open  so  much  of  his  soul 
to  human  eyes ;  and  that  was  when  he  sat  in  the  palace 
with  the  queen.  Oh,  if  they  could  only  get  back  once 
more  to  that  topic,  —  the  queen  !  Let  them  try. 

"I  meant  to  say,"  answered  Nouvisset,  "that  to  be  a 
true  knight  in  France  at  this  hour  is  to  be  heroic  and 
true,  at  a  cost  such  as  you  cannot  compute.  I  am  proud 
of  jou  ;  and  God  defend  you  !  " 

Ami  felt  happy ;  he  scarcely  knew  why.  His  teacher 
and  friend  had  certainly  not  meant  to  tell  him  that  true 
chivalry  would  cut  him  off  at  court,  or  that  it  would  bind 
him  to  Astree,  or  that  it  would  take  the  pain  out  of  his 
soul.  He  had  no  time  to  extract  the  meaning  from  the 
seething  mixture  in  his  mind.  He  only  felt  as  though 
Heaven  were  near,  when  he  heard  the  words  :  "  I  am 
proud  of  you  !  God  defend  you  !  " 

Involuntarily,  as  it  seemed,  and  simultaneously,  the  two 
began  to  retrace  their  steps,  and  were  soon  back  again, 
going  into  the  city;  but  it  was  too  late  for  any  such 


I  36  MONK  AXD  KNIGHT. 

thorough  study  of  the  plans  of  the  new  palace  as 
the  king  had  urged  Ami  to  make.  Upon  discovering 
this,  Ami  said,  — 

"  How  thankful  I  am  that  the  poor  queen  is  spared 
knowing  of  this  new  building  !  It  crushed  her  to  know 
that  she  was  unloved,  and  to  feel  often  unhonored  and 
even  pitilessly  neglected.  This  agony  she  has  escaped 
by  death." 

Nouvisset  knew  well  that  Francis  was  making  this 
elaborate  expenditure  to  please  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  ; 
and  yet  he  felt  that  he  must  not  again  throw  Ami  off 
the  track  by  mentioning  the  name,  if  he  was  to  obtain 
any  of  that  kind  of  information  about  Queen  Claude 
which  would  satisfy  an  old  man  who  had  always  been 
a  lover  of  gossip,  and  who  was  now  amusing  himself  by 
writing  his  "  Memoirs  of  the  Court." 

Suddenly  Ami  remembered  this  task  which  the  old 
knight  had  set  himself  to  perform  for  posterity ;  and  he 
resolved  that  as  they  walked  back  to  the  palace,  there 
should  fall  upon  him  an  incessant  stream  of  talk  about 
the  queen's  affairs.  The  main  facts  Ami  was  sure  the 
old  chronicler  knew;  he  would  delight  him  with  de- 
scriptions of  insignificant  but  interesting  things  about 
herself  and  her  ways.  In  much  better  spirits,  therefore, 
than  before,  he  began  the  colloquy  again. 

"  The  queen  had  many  little  things  to  make  her  happy. 
Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  simply  her  carriage,  which  you 
know  was  the  first  carriage  in  France,"  — Ami  knew  not 
that  the  second  and  a  far  richer  one  was  soon  to  be 
given  by  her  royal  lover  to  Diana  of  Poitiers,  —  "  and," 
continued  the  young  man,  "her  cabinet,  which  wai 
as  rich  and  beautiful  as  her.  jewels  were  brilliant  and 
rare,  —  that  cabinet  which  I  saw  on  that  last  afternoon 
at  the  palace,  —  a  cabinet  whose  very  key  was  adorned 
with  half  the  history  of  chivalry, — the  cabinet  which 
was  ornamented  with  exquisite  gems,  whose  whole  front, 


A   BELEAGUERED   CASTLE.  137 

back,  and  sides  were  heavy  with  mother-of-pearl,  ivory, 
and  jasper,  elaborately  engraven  —  " 

"And  which,"  added  the  eager  old  man,  delighted  to 
produce  a  little  scandalous  information  of  his  own,  — 
"  which,  as  I  know,  did  not  compare  with  the  cabinet 
which  the  king  sent  by  my  own  hand  to  Mme.  de  Cha- 
teaubriand, on  the  day  after  his  visit  to  the  tomb  of 
Claude." 

Ami  was  not  to  be  thrown  from  the  track,  though  he 
was  astonished. 

"  Nor,"  continued  he,  "  do  I  think  as  much  as  even 
she  did,  of  the  priceless  scent-box  which  she  opened  so 
often  on  that  afternoon  of  my  visit,  —  a  box  on  whose 
golden  sides  long  ago  Corneille  de  Bont£  had  graven  the 
story  of  Daphne  and  Chloe  —  " 

"  A  story  which  must  have  given  great  peace  of  mind 
to  the  queen  as  she  thought  about  her  lord,"  dryly  inter- 
rupted Nouvisset ;  and  he  proceeded  to  add  :  "  You  could 
hardly  have  expected  her  to  be  entirely  satisfied  with  toy- 
ing with  that  diminutive  watch  which,  with  her  usual  kind- 
ness, the  king's  mother  had  given  to  her  after  explaining 
that  it  was  to  take  the  place  of  the  hour-glass  which  was 
very  precious,  —  precious  to  the  queen's  mother,  and 
therefore  so  abominable  to  Louise  of  Savoy.  Ami,  does 
the  stately  Louise  of  Savoy  seem  to  enjoy  this  life  now 
that  the  poor  Claude  has  no  further  need  of  the  Latin 
cross  and  the  bejewelled  timekeeper?" 

"Oh,"  said  Nouvisset,  when  he  saw  Ami  hesitate,  and 
remembered  how  well  he  enjoyed  telling  the  truth,  even 
after  he  had  been  pushed  into  it,  —  "  oh,  I  know,  and  you 
know,  that  Claude  was  always  a  dove  in  the  claws  of  a 
vulture,  from  the  moment  in  which  she  became  Queen  of 
France  until  that  other  hour  in  which  Louise  of  Savoy 
sent  the  glad  news  to  Claude's  absent  husband  that  his 
queen  was  dead  at  St.  Germain-en-Laye." 

Ami  felt  that  he  would  give  his  golden  spurs  and  al- 


138  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

most  the  last  trappings  of  knighthood,  to  unbosom  him- 
self to  this  old  friend.  While  Nouvisset  was  an  intolerable 
lover  of  gossip,  he  never  told  a  secret,  tart  of  the 
interest  of  his  singular  character  lay  in  this.  He  had  a 
marvellous  appetite  for  salacious  information,  and  an  un- 
surpassed conscientiousness  as  to  guarding  it.  He 
('.reek  mercenary  who  had  lx  tidant  at  the  court 

of  Louis  XII.,  and  Ami  knew  that  he  had  the  secrets  of 
a  hundred  human  beings,  and  that  his  would  be  safe  in 
that  harbor ;  but  after  all,  there  was  something  so  dear 
about  his  own  MM  rvt  that  he  did  not  want  to  have  it  left 
in  bad  company.  He  was  a  knight;  and  his  secret  he 
really  began  to  brlicxc  involved  the  destiny  of  one  who 
was  noble  and  true. 

"  Princess   Claude,"  said   he,  with  awful  deliberation, 
i  dove  in  the  claws  of  a  vulture.     Did  you  ever 
think  that  an  attempt  had  been  made  to  rob  less  illustri- 
trious  maidens  of  not  less  noble  life-bkx  • 

"By  the  same  beak?"  asked  the  old  knight,  quickly. 

••  I  see  what  I  ha\  >aid  Ami.      "  My  very  soul 

is  aflame  when  I  think  I  would  h  :  and  loved  her 

as  a  pure  man  fmd>.  md  K>\  ',  if  I  had  not  been 

is  foully  .  i  tude  ;   if  she — I 

Astr£e  —  had  not  been  cursed  with  the  scheming  friend- 
liness of  Louise  of  Savoy  and  Mme.  <:  ubriand." 

'•  \Yh  it?"  >-iid  the  tea<  her,  —  "  what  ?  Do  you  know 
that  woman  is  the  mother  of  the  king?  Do  you  remem- 
ber? 'The  king  is  my  friend,  you  know,  and  yours.'  " 

The  repetition  of  the  very  words  which  Ami  had  spoken 
with  two  struggling  motives  in  his  tongue  —  "  The  king 
is  my  friend,  you  know,  and  yours"  —  unhorsed  the  young 
knight.  But  they  had  been  pronounced  with  precisely 
the  same  struggle  on  the  lips  of  Nouvis>et.  Ti 
knight  knew  well  that  he  had  the  boy  where  he  must  con- 
fess to  all  he  cared  to  know  of  his  life  and  hope.  \  <  t 
his  simulation  of  indifference,  with  manifest  anxiety  as  to 


A   BELEAGUERED   CASTLE.  139 

the  queen,  and  almost  pretentious  friendliness  to  the  name 
of  Francis  L,  must  be  adhered  to  for  the  moment. 

With  -almost  cruel  suddenness,  which,  on  the  whole, 
was  grateful  to  Ami,  because  it  helped  him  out  of  the 
immediate  crisis,  the  old  man  began  to  relate  his  own 
memories  of  the  bric-a-brac,  the  toys,  which  the  queen 
had  possessed.  It  was  a  dreadful  transition  from  the 
hot  flame  of  Ami's  soul,  where  crowns,  diadems,  and 
courts  were  being  consumed  in  the  fire  of  love,  to  the 
rooms  of  the  royal  Claude,  full  of  the  elegant  pawns  which 
Francis  I.  had  given  for  love,  —  the  cold  sepulchre  of  dead 
affection  bestrewn  with  embroidered  grave-clothes.  Both 
men  had  complete  control  of  their  faculties ;  and  so  far 
as  outward  appearances  could  testify,  the  transition  was 
made  easily. 

"What  an  artist  was  that  Luca  della  Robbia  !  "  said 
the  elder.  "  I  never  knew  how  much  more  Greek  was 
he  than  that  pretentious  nephew  of  Andrea  whom  the 
king  lauds  to  the  skies,  until  I  saw  the  white  Madonna 
which  Queen  Claude  asserted  to  me  ever  reminded  her  of 
Anne  de  Bretagne.  A  thousand  of  Giovanni's  relievos, 
such  as  those  in  the  sacristy  of  Santa  Maria  Novella 
which  I  saw  when  Florence  was  a  camp,  cannot  equal 
one  of  Luca's  medallions." 

"  No  ;  certainly  not  in  your  judgment,  Nouvisset,  if  it 
bear  the  arms  of  Ren£  of  Anjou,  or  any  heraldic  devices. 
You  are  a  knight !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  I  am  also  a  Greek,  a  lover  of  art,  I  trust. 
Knighthood  is  dead,  except  in  my  soul.  Art  is  alive 
here!"  and  Nouvisset  smote  his  breast.  "And  under 
that  fellow  Cellini,  and  old  Palissy  with  his  stained  glass, 
and  Leonardo,  whom  I  wish  the  king  could  have  per- 
suaded to  France  ;  and  Angelo,  who  is  both  heretic  and 
architect,  I  am  sure  art  is  alive  in  this  world  which  I  am 
getting  sorry  to  be  leaving  so  soon." 

The  Renaissance  rested  like  a  glorious  morning  on  the 


140  J/a\'A"  AND   A 'NIGHT. 

old  man's  brow  as  he  spoke  these  names,  and  as  he 
remembered  that  seven  years  before,  he  had  seen  in  the 
cathedral  the  two  altar-pieces  —  one  by  Raphael,  and  the 
other  by  Sebastiano  del  Piombo  —  ordered  when  Car- 
dinal Ciiuliano  was  bishop  of  Narbonne. 

•id  you  knew,"  said  Ami,  swept  into  that  flood  of 
renascent  life  which  broke  forth  at  that  time  in  any  un- 
suspected moment  in  the  conversations  of  Western  Eu- 
rope, —  "  you  knew  that  the  beautiful  gift  which  I  have 
to  preserve  from  that  melancholy  hour  is  the  vase  of 
lapis- lazuli  which  Benventito  himself  enriched  with 
pearls.  At  some  time  1.  \  will  fetch  Benvenuto 

to  Paris.  Hut,  God  prosper  him  !  things  must  become 
more  peaceful." 

••  I  have  seen  it,"  answered  the  old  man,  forgetful  of 
the  troubled  king.  —  "I  have  seen  it.  It  is  most  exqui- 
site. You  knew  that  the  king  himself  conceived  the  de- 
sign which  Cellini  worked  out  for  Mine,  de  Chateaubri- 
and, —  that  enamelled  cup,  whose  edges,  as  I  take  it,  are 
too  rough  with  diamonds  which  are  cut  to  a  point,  and 
whose  sides  one  cannot  hold  without  pain,  for  the  finely 
sharpened  rubies  upon  it.  But  it  was  well  conceived. 
Mme.  de  Chateaubriand  will  find  the  cup  very  like  the 
love  of  the  king,  mark  me,  Ami  :  " 

It  was  Ami's  chance;  he  said  sharply,  "The  king  is 
my  friend,  you  know,  and  yours." 

The  old  knight  was  unhorsed ;  and  they  were  leagues 
away  from  the  topic,  —  the  good  Queen  Claude. 

mvisset,   why    do   you    always    run   our    talk    to 
Mme.  de  Chateaubriand?" 

"  Because  we  started  out  to  inspect  some  plans  for  her 
residence,"  answered  he. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  the  palace  of  Villars-Coteret 
is  to  be  her  residence?" 

"  Because  I  remember  the  night  at  Chambord  when 
you  saw  the  beautiful  Astr£e,  and  that  earlier  night  when 


A  BELEAGUERED   CASTLE.  141 

our  Sire  Francis  I.  saw  the  lovely  Francoise  de  Foix,  and 
when  Louise  of  Savoy  smiled  on  Jean  de  Laval  de  Mont- 
morency,  who  is  now  thinking  betimes  of  Mme.  de 
Chateaubriand,  when  she  thought  of  the  ring  which 
Cellini  made  —  oh,  I  remember  the  tears  in  his  eyes, 
brighter  than  the  jewels  of  the  king's  mother,  as  the 
broken-hearted  man,  now  called  Comte  de  Chateaubriand, 
sat  there  behind  the  gentle  Queen  Claude,  his  wife  at  her 
feet,  and  the  king  eying  her  beauty." 

"Why,"  said  Ami,  his  heart  sick  within  him,  "what 
ring?  Cellini  made  for  what?  " 

"  Boy  even  yet,  I  swear  !  "  answered  he ;  "  and  you 
never  —  you  never  knew  of  it  ?  You  carried  the  ring  to 
Francis  I.,  and  saw  him  and  M.  de  Guise  compare  and 
scrutinize  them." 

"  I  carried  a  ring,  I  saw  it  compared  with  another." 

"  And  that  new  ring  was  a  golden  lie,  —  a  cursed,  elegant 
lie,  full  of  wrong  and  shame,  which  brought  Francoise 
de  Foix  from  her  castle  to  Chambord  in  spite  of  her 
husband's  efforts  to  prevent  it.  You  know  what  has 
happened  since,"  said  Nouvisset,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"  I  only  know  that  I  am  confounded  at  all  this,  —  yes, 
I  know  of —  " 

u  Of  the  intrigue,  my  son." 

At  that  moment  they  had  arrived  in  the  street  leading 
to  the  palace  ;  and  a  swarm  of  chattering  monks  rushed 
by  them.  Strange  faces  also  appeared,  as  they  entered 
the  familiar  doors;  and  Nouvisset,  who  alone  seemed 
to  comprehend  the  situation,  said,  — 

"  Ami,  be  a  true  knight,  until  we  meet  again." 

They  had  separated ;  and  their  thoughts  would  have 
been  lost  in  the  apprehension  of  strange  scenes,  if  they 
had  been  such  thoughts  as  men  may  lose. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

A    DISCARDED    FAVORITE. 

"  Hateful  is  the  dark  blue  sky 

ted  o'er  the  dark -blue  sea." 

THAT  conversion  with  Nouvisset  was  never  finished. 
Notwithstanding    this,    however,   Ami    found   out 
soon  what  all  i  t   French  biography  know,  —  the 

true  story  of  that  ring,  —  the  vain  effort  of  a  husband  to 
keep  his  beautiful  wife  from  the  eye  of  an  ignoble  mon- 
arch ;  the  subtle  invention  of  a  ring  exactly  like  one 
which  he  himself  held,  promising  to  send  it  to  his  home 
in  Brittany  only  when  he  should  deem  it  wise  to  welcome 
his  beloved  spouse  to  the  court ;  the  king's  stealth  in  the 
sending  of  the  fine  imitation  to  the  unsuspecting  but  weak 
Francoise  de  Foix ;  her  sudden  a ppearance  before  the 
scheming  monarch,  and  the  suffering  of  her  mystified  and 
suspicious  husband  :  the  unholy  alliance  ;  the  transforma- 
tion of  her  husband  Jean  de  I^val  de  Montmorency  and 
Francoise  de  Foix  into  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Chateau- 
briand, at  the  command  of  the  dissimulating  king ;  the 
mined  woman,  the  dishonored  man  ! 

Until  Ami  knew  all  these  facts,  he  had  not  fathomed 
the  murky  gloom  out  of  which  he  had  seen  shining  his 
star,  —  Astr£e. 


A   DISCARDED  FAVORITE.  143 

"  Oh,  curses  on  the  head  of  Louise  of  Savoy  !  "  said 
Ami,  as  he  remembered  that  the  king's  mother  had 
planned  it  all,  and  had  sought  to  make  his  own  love  for 
Astree  the  den  for  such  a  brood  of  vipers.  "  Nouvisset 
knew  that  I  could  not  successfully  oppose  her  schemes 
and  crimes,  leagued  as  they  were  with  the  weakness  of  her 
son,  —  my  best  beloved  !  Oh,  he  was,  he  is  my  friend  ! 
Once  more  will  I  try  to  awaken  the  slumbering  soul  that 
may  rule  Europe." 

Tears  were  in  Ami's  soul,  and  they  were  soon  in  his 
eyes.  He  went  out  into  the  fresh  morning  air.  He 
never  learned  what  many  others  could  have  told  him, 
that  the  crowd  of  monks  of  the  night  before  had  been  in 
pursuit  of  a  luckless  Lutheran,  who  happily  had  escaped 
them.  He  had  learned  enough,  however,  to  convince 
him  that  critical  hours  had  come.  His  heart  was 
breaking  for  Astre"e,  when  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  an 
exquisite  little  'picture  of  his  loved  one,  which,  by  order 
of  his  king,  had  been  painted  on  ivory. 

He  now  knew  also  what  the  appearance  of  those  strange 
faces  of  the  last  night  at  the  palace  meant.  The  valet- 
de-chambre  had  made  it  clear  that  the  king  was  about  to 
exile  Mme.  de  Chateaubriand.  At  last  Louise  of  Savoy 
had  become  intolerant  of  her  influence  over  the  affairs  of 
the  king.  Here  was  the  guard  of  protection  ;  and  — 

"  Curses,  curses  upon  her  and  the  priests  who  grant 
indulgences  !  "  cried  Ami's  heart. 

The  guard  of  protection  waited  to  escort  the  Comtesse 
de  Chateaubriand  to  a  husband  who  would  at  least  shelter 
the  unfortunate  woman. 

Ami's  heart  sank  within  him.  During  the  imprison- 
ment of  the  king  he  had  suffered  as  much  of  contumely 
as  Chancellor  Duprat  and  Louise  of  Savoy  had  dared  to 
inflict  upon  him.  The  comtesse  had  served  the  queen 
regent,  who  had  counselled  with  the  chancellor,  and 
accepted  the  advice  of  Parliament  as  to  the  suppression 


144  MONK'  AND  KXIGHT. 

of  heretics.  Louis  de  Berquin,  dear  to  Ami  and  to 
Marguerite,  had  been  seized  for  translating  the  writings 
of  Krasmus,  and  imprisoned  in  the  Conciergerie.  Louise 
of  Savoy  had  made  Ami  charitable  even  toward  the  name 
Chateaubriand  by  her  cruel  treatment  of  the  king's 
favorite,  when  the  latter  could  not  serve  her.  Now  that 
the  king  had  returned  to  France,  saying,  "  Lo,  I  am  king 
again,"  the  young  knight  had  looked  for  better  days.  The 
sky,  however,  was  very  inauspicious. 

Tin-  old  knight,  in  his  apartments,  waited  the  orders 
of  the  queen  regent,  who  was  sovereign  over  her  son's 
love-affairs.  Ami  was  commanded  to  appear  before  his 
Majesty.  This  knight  was  aware  that  some  subterfuge 
would  be  adopted  to  escape  the  force  of  convictions 
which  Francis  I.  never  failed  to  honor  in  one  way  or 
another.  The  king  saw  that  he  must  now  appease 
the  conscience  of  his  friend,  —  as  deeply  did  he  love 
him  as  was  possible  in  such  a  nature,  —  and  he  must 
accomplish  this  by  spreading  a  banquet  before  Ami's 
intellect. 

"  He  cannot  be  dull  enough  to  miss  the  flashes  of 
Mile.  d'Heilly's  wit,"  remarked  his  Majesty.  "  She  is  far 
more  bright  than  the  comtesse  ever  will  be."  Then  the 
king  repeated  a  saying  which  had  already  tickled  the  ears 
of  a  court  which  was  ready  to  welcome  from  the  regent's 
suite  the  new  royal  favorite,  —  "La  plus  belle  des  sa- 
vantes,  et  la  plus  savante  des  belles." 

"  No,"  said  the  queen  regent,  as  she  thought  of  Ami,  — 
"  no,  my  Caesar  !  If  you  must  hold  fast  to  a  man  who  is 
a  nuisance,  and  who  is  rapidly  becoming  a  heretic  —  " 

"The  astrologer  bade  me,"  said  Francis  I.,  with  de- 
cision, "  and  I  love  Ami." 

"  Then  make  him  easy,"  she  answered  ;  "  quote  to  him 
the  praise  of  the  poet  Clement  Marot." 

Francis  I.  was  soon  able  to  repeat  those  lines  which 
Marot  had  written  of  the  king's  new  love  :  — 


A   DISCARDED  FAVORITE.  145 

"  Dix-huit  ans  je  vous  donne, 

Belle  et  bonne, 

Mais  a  votre  sens  rassis 

Trente-cinq  et  trente-six 

J'en  ordonne." 

"  Surely,"  said  he,  thinking  of  the  wit  which  even 
Marguerite  had  loaned  to  her  guilty  brother,  and  which 
was  now  engraved  in  loving  mottoes  upon  the  jewels 
intended  at  first  for  the  discarded  Mme.  de  Chateau- 
briand, —  "  surely,  Ami  will  help  me  to  meet  the  tasks 
growing  up  with  this  revival  of  ancient  learning ;  and  my 
Marguerite  of  Marguerites,  with  the  sweet  mademoiselle, 
will  soothe  his  conscience  with  their  scholarship." 

A  man  who  has  no  conscience  is  sure  to  make  miscal- 
culations with  reference  to  one  who  has  \  and  Francis  I. 
was  therefore  impotent  with  the  Waldensian,  when  the 
concessions  of  friendship  were  forgotten.  Ami  was  not 
strongest  on  the  intellectual  side  of  his  nature.  His 
power  lay  in  the  faculty  for  which  Francis  I.  could  spread 
no  feast. 

In  the  presence  of  conscience,  the  knight  at  once  saw 
his  Majesty's  effort  to  conceal  the  topic  of  his  heart  with 
sentences  which  dealt  with  the  affairs  of  the  brain.  So 
deep  and  tender  was  Ami's  love  for  him,  so  hopeful 
had  he  become  that  Francis  I.  should  be  worthy  of  the 
title  "  King  of  Culture,"  that  at  first  he  resolved  to 
acquiesce.  Still,  however,  in  despite  throbbed  the  con- 
science within  him.  Ami  was  so  made  that  if  his  in- 
tellectual powers  played  at  all,  they  must  be  moved  by 
a  moral  motive. 

In  that  year  it  had  grown  increasingly  difficult  for  Ami 
to  acknowledge  the  spiritual  dictatorship  which  Louise 
of  Savoy  had  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  famous  syndic 
Beda.  Erasmus  had  said  of  Beda  that  such  a  man  was 
no  more  fit  to  decide  questions  as  to  the  future  of  the 
University  of  Paris,  than  was  a  wolf  to  sit  in  judgment 

VOL.  II. —  10 


I46  J/0.VA*  AXD  KMGUT. 

upon  the  prospects  of  a  kid.  Ami  was  determined  to 
recall  Erasmus  to  his  king. 

Ami  made  no  more  audacious  attack  upon  the  party 
in  power  than  when  on  the  day  upon  which  he  saw  the 
king  willing  to  talk  of  learning,  instead  of  allowing  his 
Majesty  to  praise  Mademoiselle,  he  thrust  at  him  these 
words,  — 

"  Erasmus  is  the  only  scholar  sure  to  rule  the  future. 
Beda  does  not  challenge  even  William  Bud6 ;  he  would 
not  dare  to  challenge  Erasmus." 

"  I  have  often  wondered,"  replied  the  king,  who  was 
at  once  plunged  into  a  most  thoughtful  mood,  "  that  none 
of  our  divines  has  dared  to  lay  hands  on  Erasmus." 

Ami  understood  Beda,  Syndic  of  the  Sorbonne.  Nou- 
visset  had  often  put  his  self-conscious  learning  to  shame. 
It  was  also  true  that  no  one  so  dreaded  the  sharp  tongue 
and  quick  intelligence  of  Ami,  as  did  that  chief  figure  of 
Sorbonne  orthodoxy. 

"That  knight  Ami  will  make  his  Majesty  think  me  a 
pretence  or  an  idiot,"  complained  Beda  to  Louise  of 
Savoy. 

No  one  had  so  completely  demolished  the  schemes  of 
Beda,  which  looked  toward  absolute  control  of  the  men- 
tal energies  of  France,  as  had  Ami. 

••  I  want  to  read  to  your  Majesty,"  said  Ami,  one  day,  — 
"  indeed,  I  must  read  to  you,  Sire  —  the  letter  which  I 
have  found  out  Erasmus  wrote  to  Beda  when  the  Syndic 
had  succeeded  in  getting  Friar  Sutor's  book  afloat  in 
Paris." 

Francis  I.  had  perused  the  Carthusian  friar's  work, 
at  the  instance  of  his  mother,  who  was  determined  to  be 
queen  regent  of  her  son's  ideas  of  religion. 

"  Read  !  "  commanded  the  king. 

Ami  read  this  passage  from  Erasmus :  "  What  will  be 
said  by  men  of  sober  judgment,  —  and  there  are  more  to 
be  counted  everywhere  who  have  no  dislike  for  Erasmus, 


A   DISCARDED  FAVORITE.  147 

—  when  they  see  such  books  issuing  from  the  Sorbonne  ? 
Sound  theologians  are  brought  into  contempt  by  the  folly 
of  a  few." 

"  Did  Beda  answer  that  letter?  "  asked  the  king. 

"  Yes,  and  in  most  abominable  Latin ;  and  he  called 
himself  « the  poor  Beda,  who,  like  Saint  Augustine,  would 
seek  to  save  the  Church  from  error  and  scandal.'  " 

"  What  else  did  he  say?  " 

"  Oh,  he  told  Erasmus  that  his  writings  on  celibacy, 
the  works  and  the  feasts,  especially  those  which  con- 
cerned themselves  with  the  translating  of  the  Scriptures 
into  the  tongue  of  the  people,  and  on  praise  of  marriage, 
were  looked  at  by  the  Sorbonne  as  vicious." 

"And  this  controversy  has  gone  on?  " 

"  Yes,  Sire  !  It  has  gone  on  until  Erasmus  has  poured 
his  scorn  upon  Beda,  Friar  Sutor,  and  the  Sorbonne. 
He  laughs  at  Sutor  for  saying  that  languages  and  litera- 
ture are  the  Devil's  devices ;  and  he  ridicules  him  when 
he  says  that  to  know  Hebrew  or  Greek  is  heretical. 
And  now,  Sire,  this  book  comes  to  you." 

Ami  placed  in  the  king's  hand  "  Guesses  in  Answer  to 
Beda's  Notes." 

"  What  do  you  advise  ?  "  inquired  his  Majesty,  looking 
at  page  after  page. 

"  Beda  must  not  continue  to  misrepresent  your  court, 
Sire.  It  will  become  the  laughing-stock  of  Europe. 
Erasmus  will  set  the  whole  world  to  sneering  at  France. 
Who  can  help  a  smile  when  he  points  out  that  Beda  is 
like  Cicero  in  the  manner  of  beginning  a  sentence, 
and  unlike  him  in  not  knowing  the  difference  between 
the  indicative  and  subjunctive  moods?  Who  can  re- 
spect Beda,  after  Erasmus  has  shown  that  in  the  little 
book,  '  Errors  of  Erasmus,'  there  are  one  hundred  and 
eighty  lies,  three  hundred  and  ten  calumnies,  and  forty- 
seven  blasphemies?  " 

Francis  I.  smiled.     "That  is  ludicrous,  but  serious," 


148  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

said  he ;  and  added,  "  But  Beda  says  that  Erasmus  is  in 
collusion  with  Luther." 

"  '  I  agree  with  Luther  as  a  nightingale  does  with  the 
cuckoo,'  —  that  is  his  own  saying,"  said  Ami.  "  Beda 
says  :  « The  old  theology  must  remain ;  but  what  are  we 
to  do  with  Luther,  who  is  a  wild  boar,  devastating  the 
Lord's  vineyard?'" 

•'  What  does  Erasmus  say  to  that?  "  inquired  the  king. 

"  '  Theology  must  be  scriptural  and  rational,  be  it  old 
or  new.  The  Church  needs  reform,  Luther  or  no 
Luther.' " 

Francis  I.  at  that  instant  caught  sight  of  his  mother. 
Louise  of  Savoy  was  scornfully  indignant,  if  her  face  was 
to  be  believed.  She  swept  past ;  but  she  had  overheard 
the  whole  conversation. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  king,  —  "oh  that  I  were  strong  enough 
either  to  abolish  the  Sorbonne  or  to  crush  the  whole 
brood  of  heretics  !  " 

Ami  knew  prudence  and  silence  to  be  identical  at  that 
time. 

On  the  1 6th  of  June  —  the  biographers  of  Erasmus 
give  us  the  exact  date  —  a  letter  from  the  scholar  had 
reached  the  King  of  France.  Ami  now  read  it  to  the 
king  again.  Erasmus,  in  that  epistle,  begged  the  right 
to  have  his  works  printed  in  Paris,  the  men  of  whose 
university,  such  as  Sutor  and  Beda,  were  bringing  great 
contempt  upon  it. 

"  It  is  most  unjust,"  wrote  Erasmus,  "  that  they  should 
be  permitted  to  disseminate  poison,  and  that  we  should 
not  be  permitted  to  apply  the  antidote." 

Francis  I.  listened,  arose,  and  walked  in  the  direction 
which  Louise  of  Savoy  had  taken.  Ami  knew  now  that 
the  soul  of  the  king  was  at  a  crisis  of  surpassing  impor- 
tance to  his  Majesty  and  to  France.  The  king  meant  to 
be  "  the  King  of  Culture"  which  he  had  been  called. 
He  had  done  much  to  limit  the  ignorant  bigotry  of 


A   DISCARDED  FAVORITE.  149 

Beda.  Could  he  —  would  he  control  with  kingly  might 
the  college  of  the  Sorbonne? 

So  much  for  the  king ;  but  where  was  Ami  himself 
tending?  Could  he  take  the  logical  next  step,  pointing 
so  distinctly  toward  an  alliance  with  the  Reformation  ? 

Astree  and  he  sat  in  the  evening  under  a  splendid 
pavilion  which  had  but  a  moment  before  made  a  ren- 
dezvous for  the  royal  lovers  Francis  I.  and  Mme.  de 
Chateaubriand,  whose  affections  the  guilty  king  had  so 
completely  won,  from  whom  now  he  was  about  to  part 
forever.  The  two  moments,  the  two  pairs  of  lovers, 
furnished  a  sad  contrast. 

This  was  the  first  scene,  —  that  in  which  king  and 
comtesse  found  agonies.  In  a  moment  of  thoughtfulness 
about  events  very  different  from  the  one  which  would 
that  night  break  the  heart  of  her  to  whom  the  king  was  so 
frigid,  his  Majesty  had  slowly  said,  — 

"I  am  perplexed  at  the  coming  storm." 

"  There  is  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  or  a  breath  of  wind 
in  the  purple  vineyards,"  was  the  soft  answer. 

The  king  quivered  as  she  touched  his  flushed  cheek. 

"  No ;  but  Erasmus  and  Beda  annoy  me  more  than 
the  Pope  and  the  Emperor  Charles." 

Francis  I.  arose  with  evident  impatience.  They  had 
never  talked  of  Reformers  and  colleges.  Why  should 
he  speak  of  such  dry  and  prosaic  facts  now? 

The  Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand  looked  upon  him 
with  her  sparkling  eyes,  her  sickened  heart  beating  vio- 
lently, and  said,— 

"  Let  us  talk  of  love,  my  king.  I  hope  you  are  not 
concerned  about  those  testy  Reformers.  Ami  has  Astree's 
head  full  of  whimsical  notions  of  which  lovers  ought  to 
know  nothing.  He  has  almost  insulted  your  royal  mother 
by  what  he  dared  to  say  about  the  indulgences.  Astrde 
mopes  about  like  a  nun  within  a  convent  of  skeletons. 
Ami  tells  her  all  that  the  puny  Louis  de  Berquin  has  said, 


I5O  A/O.YA'  AXD  KX1CIIT. 

and  then  they  pretend  —  Come  nearer,  sweet  king  !  — 
Oh,  these  Reformers  trouble  us  !  They  have  maur 
and  Astre'e  complain  that  things  go  not  to  the  liking  of 
some  crazy  monk  in  Germany,  or  some  bold  lover  of 
Greek  and  Hebrew  like  Erasmus.  —  Not  a  kiss  for  me  yet, 
noble  sovereign  !  Shall  I  kneel  for  it?  Ha  !  I  could  not 
think  you  so  agitated  as  to  forget  love.  Alas  !  as  I  was 
saying,  Ami  does  not  like  my  presence  here,  as  1  know  full 
well.  But  —  I  know  your  woes,  Sire  —  you  would  not  for- 
sake me  ?  That  I  know,  beloved  one  !  You  would  not 
me,  even  if  these  notions  of  the  Reformers  prevail? 
The  priests  do  grant  us  absolution ;  and  they  are  the 
ministers  of  God.  You  doubt  it  not?  Ala>  :  I  will  call 
you,  as  does  the  queen  regent,  my  Caesar  !  What  is  this  ? 
Oh,  Francis  !  " 

The  mind  of  Francis  I.  was  a  tempest.     Oh,  what  a 
deliverance  —  half    heroic,   half  divine  —  if   he    could 
break  with  her  on  a  difference  about  ti 
It  would  please  Ami,  he  thought. 

The  remembrance  of  Queen  Claude,  to  whom  he  had 
been  so  false ;  the  recollection  of  the  hour  when  he  re- 
solved to  make  France  the  seed-ground  of  the  needed 
reform;  the  love  he  had  for  the  high-souled  Ami, — all 
these  swept  upon  him,  as  he  arose  again,  weighted  with  a 
chain  of  guilt  which  made  it  impossible  for  his  conscience 
to  dream  of  reform.  His  magnificent  form  stood  solemnly 
in  the  moonlight.  The  King  of  France  felt  that  the  higher 
sovereignties  of  his  life  and  kingdom  were  slipping  away 
from  him.  France  seemed  to  shriek  with  the  pale  wo- 
man at  his  breast.  The  superbly  attired  monarch  bore 
the  fainting  comtesse  to  her  own  apartments. 

An  hour  had  passed,  and  this  was  the  second  scene. 

Ami  and  Astree  had  found  each  other  where  the  mag- 
netic eye  of  Francis  had  given  such  c<  st^y  to  the 
Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand  until  what  she  had  deemed 
an  unexpected  manifestation  of  the  king's  consciene 


A  DISCARDED  FAVORITE.  151 

discovered  to  be  a  blow  which  broke  her  heart.  Here, 
where  the  fires  of  remorse  and  those  of  a  new  and  guilty 
love  had  kindled  and  mingled  in  such  a  twisted  flame  as 
by  the  side  of  a  languishing  and  discarded  affection  lit  up 
that  wreck  of  hope  which  Francis  I.  and  his  career  had 
come  to  be, — here  sat  Astr£e's  purity  and  Ami's  sacred 
faith.  Did  Astree's  liquid  eyes  realize  how  deeply  Ami's 
soul  had  gone  into  their  abysses  ?  She  knew  Ami.  His 
conscience,  which  had  spurned  the  proposed  intrigue,  was 
her  guardian.  She  was  safe. 

Did  the  very  leaves  seem  to  whisper  as  the  splendid 
young  knight  drew  her  slender  loveliness  up  to  his  beat- 
ing heart,  and  gave  to  hers,  in  one  long,  loving  kiss,  the 
lips  which  had  uttered  such  a  protest  against  a  wrong 
which  priesthood  and  kingcraft  would  forgive?  She 
felt  herself  to  be  in  the  circle  of  divine  protection,  and 
knew  that  no  pope  or  emperor  could  so  certainly  pre- 
serve her.  It  was  love's  ecstasy  within  the  fiery  environ- 
ment of  an  awakened  conscience.  Oh,  how  safe  was 
Astre"e  !  Their  age  allowed  them  to  talk  upon  matters 
such  as  perhaps  equally  fond  lovers  in  a  finer  moral  at- 
mosphere would  have  contemplated  in  silence.  Besides 
the  personal  relations  of  Astree  —  "  An  adopted  sister ; 
yes,  only  adopted,"  thought  Ami  —  to  the  comtesse, 
the  history  of  Ami's  pure  affection  so  unfortunately  allied 
to  the  king's  favorite  allowed  Astree  and  Ami  to  express 
their  sensitiveness  as  to  her  fortunes.  They  knew  that 
while  Ami  was  toying  with  the  dark  ringlets  which  fell 
from  the  head  of  Astree  as  her  head  lay  upon  his  heart, 
the  King  of  France  and  the  woman  whom  he  had 
years  ago  stolen  from  her  proud  husband  were  yonder 
in  the  palace,  passing  through  the  agonies  of  their  last 
interview. 

"Let  us  be  grateful,"  said  the  Waldensian  knight, 
"  that  no  foul  memory  stains  our  love,  Astree." 

AstreVs  eyes  were  two  stars  dipped  in  a  silver  sea  of 


152  MONK  AND  K. \IGHT. 

tears ;  but  Ami  kissed  every  tear-drop  away,  one  by  one, 
as  she  piteously  cried,  — 

"But  what  will  become  of  her?  Oh  the  heartless 
king  !  " 

The  protesting  fire  in  Ami's  blood  now  burned  into 
furious  pulses.  He  only  said, — 

"  Astre"e,  by  my  soul,  I  do  hate  a  condition  of  affairs 
in  Church  and  State  which  allows  a  priest  to  sell  to  a  king 
the  right  to  steal  his  friend's  bride,  absolves  him  in  ad- 
vance, —  for  that  use  is  made  of  abused  indulgences,  — 
absolves  him  from  sins  of  unnamable  infamy,  and  then 
stands  by  approvingly  when  he  is  ready  to  cast  his  victim 
into  the  dungeon  or  the  grave,  offering  him  pardons  and 
indulgences  at  so  much  apiece." 

"  Love  does  not  barter  or  steal  or  trade  or  grow 
weary,"  she  said,  as  she  nestled  close  to  the  strong  young 
knight,  like  a  bird  which  has  just  seen  a  winged  creature 
like  itself  torn  in  the  storm. 

"  No ;  nor  does  true  religion  sell  its  solemn  authority 
for  the  debasing  of  souls,"  answered  Ami. 

Nothing  could  prevent  the  exile  of  Comtesse  de 
Chateaubriand.  Louise  of  Savoy  was  authoritative ; 
Mile.  d'Heilly  was  happy.  While  in  another  part 
of  the  palace  the  latter  was  playing  with  the  jewels 
which  Francis  I.  had  demanded  of  his  former  favorite, 
laughing  also  at  the  witticisms  which  gleamed  from  the 
exquisite  cases,  and  laying  her  delicate  hand  of  com- 
mandment upon  the  soul  of  his  Majesty,  Astre'e,  who 
had  worked  herself  up  into  passionate  self-sacrifice,  had 
approached  the  dethroned  Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand, 
where  she  sat  like  a  beggared  queen,  moaning  piteously, 
unbefriended,  waiting  for  the  valet-de-chambre  to  an- 
nounce the  guard. 

"  Oh,  little  one  !  "  cried  the  dethroned  woman,  calling 
Astre'e  by  the  very  name  which  she  used  when  the  in- 


A   DISCARDED  FAVORITE.  153 

trigue  was  proposed  to  that  innocent  heart  years  before, 
—  "  oh,  little  one,  the  saints  protect  thee  !  I  bless  thee 
with  hands  which  tremble  because  they 'have  toyed  with 
infamy.  Do  you  move  away  from  me  too  ?  Oh,  sister  ! 
only  '  adopted'  ?  O  God  !  Child  !  I  thank  thee  for  wear- 
ing lilac-blossoms  at  thy  girdle,  —  thank'thee,  little  one  ! 
Astre"e,  thinkest  thou  my  blessing  will  curse  thy  pure 
soul  ?  No  ?  Sister  Astree,  I  thank  thee  !  Ah,  I  beg  of 
thee  do  not  avoid  my  foul  lips :  they  are  parched ;  the 
foulness  is  burned  away.  No  ?  Astree  !  Ami's  kisses 
will  obliterate  the  stain  I  may  leave  upon  thine. 
I  am  a  ruin.  As  the  airs  of  heaven  sweep  over  the 
catastrophe,  let  the  ruin  and  the  winds  teach  thee,  O 
little  one !  The  priests  have  nothing  wherewith  to 
cleanse  my  soul.  O  Jesu  !  O  Christ !  Thou  must  save 
another  stained  soul !  Ami  —  Astree  !  forgive  me  !  Oh 
that  Louis  de  Berquin  —  only  yesterday  I  was  asking  for 
his  ashes  !  —  oh  that  Louis  de  Berquin  or  —  Does 
William  Farel  live,  or  Lefevre?  Oh  that  each  might 
pray  for  my  soul  !  Little  one  !  Astree  !  " 

There  was  a  noise  outside,  —  dull,  continuous,  terrify- 
ing. The  infamous  chivalry  of  Francis  I.  had  accom- 
plished its  purpose.  The  guard  had  come. 

Soon  the  speechless  Astree  was  conscious  that  Ami's 
hand  was  gently  pressing  her  forehead.  The  Comtesse 
de  Chateaubriand  was  on  her  way  to  the  dark  vault 
beneath  the  chateau  in  Brittany. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE  ZEAL  OF   HERESY. 

Humana  ante  oculos  foede  cum  vita  jaceret  • 

In  terris  oppressa  gravi  sub  religione, 
Qua;  caput  a  coeli  regionibus  ostendebat 
Horribili  super  aspectu  mortalibus  instans. 

LUCRETIUS. 

BEFORE  many  days  had  gone,  the  queen  regent, 
Chancellor  Duprat,  and  Beda  —  the  fir>t  a  vicious 
and  scheming  bigot,  the  second  her  ignorant  but  able 
vicegerent,  the  third  a  pretentious  persecutor  of  the 
Reforming  scholars  —  had  completely  compassed  their 
aims.  The  King  of  France  having  been  offended  and 
shamed  by  an  interview  with  Ami,  who  steadily  refused 
either  to  treat  Mile.  d'Heilly,  who  was  now  Duchesse 
d'Etampes,  as  his  queen,  or  to  allow  them  to  make 
his  love  for  Astree  a  shield  for  the  royal  crime,  was 
ready  to  accede  to  a  suggestion  of  the  chancellor,  in- 
spired by  Beda.  This  brought  forth  a  simple  scheme  to 
send  Ami  upon  an  expedition  to  Florence  and  beyond 
even  to  Alexandria,  for  what  Beda  protested  was  the 
rescue  of  certain  ancient  manuscripts.  The  Italian  am- 
bassador had  so  described  them  as  to  leave  no  doubt  in 
the  minds  of  the  scholars  consulted  by  Francis  I.  as  to 
their  high  value.  For  a  share  in  the  booty  the  Italian 
ambassador,  on  agreement  with  Admiral  Andrea  Doria, 
was  willing  to  allow  Francesco,  whom  Ami  had  loved  as 
his  companion  at  Chilly,  to  accompany  him.  With  their 


THE   ZEAL   OF  HERESY.  155 

eyes  full  of  visions  of  palimpsests  on  which  the  Fathers  of 
the  Church  disputed  the  right  to  territory  with  Homer 
and  ^schylus,  and  especially  with  joy  on  the  part  of 
Ami,  who  felt  that  he  must,  at  least  for  the  present,  with- 
draw himself  from  the  court,  these  two  young  men  were 
ready  to  set  out.  They  had  been  provided  with  letters 
which  would  make  their  journey  more  charming  than  a 
royal  pageant.  One  of  the  syndics  of  the  Sorbonne  was 
busy  instructing  Francesco  in  secret,  who  was  to  search 
for  the  Syriac  manuscript  of  which  both  Eusebius  and 
Palladius  had  made  mention.  He  was  sure  that  it  would 
be  found  in  one  of  the  monastic  institutions  of  the  See  tic 
desert,  perhaps  in  that  of  Saint  Macarius. 

Ami  was  talking  earnestly  with  Marguerite  of  Navarre 
at  St.  Germain. 

"  The  chancellor  hates  learning,  and  yet  seems  eager 
to  behold  a  bit  of  Oriental  vellum,"  said  he,  curiously. 

"  Think  you  that  he  desires  the  death  of  Sieur  Ber- 
quin?  "  asked  the  Queen  of  Navarre. 

"  Beda  loathes  Berquin,  who  has  been  my  teacher 
and  friend,  —  my  nearest  friend,  since  the  death  of 
Nouvisset.  I  know  you  honor  Berquin  as  you  could  not 
honor  the  Greek.  The  Syndics  of  the  Sorbonne  will  re- 
joice at  having  us  where  we  cannot  confer  for  his  pro- 
tection. I  am  sorry,  gracious  princess,  that  Master 
Berquin  is  not  a  little  less  pugnacious.  He  may  flame 
with  uncontrollable  enthusiasm  for  the  Reform  at  a  mo- 
ment when  it  will  be  impossible  to  save  him  from  the 
fierceness  of  the  Sorbonne.  Duprat  is  unable  to  read  a 
word  of  Greek ;  and  yet  he  wants  Greek  manuscripts. 
He  is  ignorant ;  and  yet  he  knows  that  the  ancient 
languages  cannot  be  studied  without  giving  an  impulse 
to  the  Reform.  Why  does  he  want  Francesco  and  my- 
self to  start  to-day  for  more  manuscripts?  I  cannot  see 
a  reason  for  it ;  but  I  feel  that  there  is  an  intention  to 
make  away  with  Berquin." 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  You  are  quite  right  about  Sieur  Berquin's  lack  of  prac- 
tical  wisdom,"  quietly  remarked  the  thoughtful  princess. 
"  It  seemed  almost  impossible  to  save  him  before." 

"  Only  your  brother's  love  for  you  kept  him  from  the 
prison,  possibly  the  stake.  This  I  have  believed,"  said 
Ami. 

"  Will  you  speak  to  the  good  scholar  ere  you  depart? 
Tell  him  of  our  love  for  him.  Tell  him  that  you  leave 
your  beloved  friend  the  scholar  in  the  hands  of  a  loving 
king,  who  cannot  always  deny  the  Court  of  Parliament 
their  privileges." 

"The  privilege,  for  example,  of  burning  illustrious 
scholars  and  pious  worshippers  of  God,"  interjected 
Ami. 

"  Tell  him,"  continued  the  queen,  "  the  whole  story  of 
his  release.  Ask  him  to  consult  with  me  before  he  acts 
in  serious  affairs." 

"  He  will  probably  tell  me  that  he  consults  with 
nothing  but  duty  and  Almighty  God,"  said  the  knight, 
as  he  walked  toward  the  balcony,  not  knowing  whether 
quite  to  respect  the  inconsistent  Marguerite.  He  added  : 
"  I  do  not  know  the  whole  story  of  his  release." 

"  No  one  but  myself  could  know  it.  Tell  it  to  him, 
and  he  will  allow  me  to  guide  him.  It  is  this :  When 
first,  six  years  ago,  his  books  were  examined,  the  Inquisi- 
tion found  works  of  Carlstadt,  Melancthon,  and  Luther. 
He  was  thrown  into  the  square  tower,  after  the  commission 
had  reported  upon  them.  I  did  not  know  him  then, 
save  as  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  piety ;  but,  Ami,  I  knew 
that  you  had  loved  him,  and  that,  since  knighthood  and 
learning  had  lost  the  active  services  of  Nouvisset,  Ber- 
quin  had  taught  you  much  that  the  Greek  could  not 
teach.  I  wrote  to  the  king,  as  my  brother  and  as 
your  loving  friend.  These  were  my  words  :  '  Ami's  tutor 
and  friend  is  confined  in  the  Conciergerie,  and  will  be 
put  to  death  according  to  law,  if  your  Majesty  does  not 


THE  ZEAL    OF  HERESY.  157 

interfere.  Monseigneur,  spare  your  loving  Ami  and 
your  Marguerite.'  The  venue  was  changed.  Duprat 
and  the  Chamber  remonstrated.  To  this  hour,  no  one 
knows  who  so  persistently  labored  with  the  gracious  king. 
John  du  Belay,  Bishop  of  Bayonne,  held  the  ground  which 
I  had  gained  with  the  sovereign.  Chancellor  Duprat 
quietly  rebuked  Berquin,  instead  of  burning  him  in  front 
of  Notre  Dame." 

"  Does  not  Berquin  know  of  this?  "  asked  Ami. 

"  Not  a  whisper.  But  you  must  tell  him,  also,  that  he 
ought  to  avoid  being  over-bold ;  also,  that  he  must  be 
willing  to  obey  my  counsel.  Once  again,  after  that,  for 
your  sake,  did  I  save  him.  You  had  a  helping  hand  in 
it  all." 

"  Let  me  hear  the  whole  story,"  said  the  knight. 

"  Four  years  ago  Parliament  was  unsatisfied  as  to  my 
mother's  tolerance  of  heretics ;  and  they  reproached  the 
king,  who  was  then  a  prisoner  at  Madrid,  with  having 
given  your  teacher,  Louis  de  Berquin,  his  freedom.  They 
advised  the  queen  regent  to  ask  a  commission  of  pon- 
tifical delegates.  In  January,  as  I  now  remember  it, 
Berquin  was  again  in  the  Conciergerie.  He  had  dragged 
the  name  and  fortune  of  Erasmus  into  the  trial.  I 
begged  of  my  brother  Francis  his  life  for  your  sake. 
When  the  order  to  suspend  came  to  Parliament,  one 
cried  out,  '  The  king  is  as  badly  advised  as  he  himself  is 
good  ; '  and  they  went  on  to  condemn  him.  He  could 
abjure  his  books,  or  be  burned.  You  remember  it,  as  I 
see.  You  told  me  he  would  not  approve  the  sentence." 

"  I  know  the  rest,"  interrupted  Ami ;  "let  me  see  if -I 
have  it  not.  I  shall  place  it  all  before  Master  Berquin." 

Ami  proceeded  to  relate  an  occurrence  the  thought  of 
which,  he  believed,  would,  in  a  crisis  which  the  boldness 
of  Berquin  might  precipitate,  compel  him  to  regard  the  ad- 
vice of  Marguerite  so  gratefully  as  to  follow  her  counsel. 

"  I  myself,"  said  he,  —  "I  intercepted  the  king,  as  he 


158  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

approached  Paris.  He  embraced  me  and  said  :  '  Ami  \ 
I  am  King  of  France  once  more;  and  thou  hast  Kvn 
faithful.  I  come  back  to  my  realm  seeking  to  do  all 
for  one  who  would  have  kept  me  from  the  prison  of  Ma- 
drid.' Your  letters  were  handed  to  him.  I  asked  for  the 
protection.  Then  the  king  wrote  from  Mont  dc  Marsan 
his  courageous  letter.  I  say  '  courageous,'  because  the 
principle  that  heresy  must  be  controlled  is  one  which  an 
army  of  kings  cannot  oppose,"  added  Ami,  who  felt  that 
even  precious  heretics  could  tax  their  friends  at  court 
too  heavily. 

The  reader  may  be  willing  to  see  some  of  the  lines  of 
that  letter,  the  manuscript  of  which  is  now  a  suggestive 
memorial  in  the  French  archives.  The  king  wrote  :  — 

"We  have  presently  been  notified  how  that  notwith 
standing  that,  through  our  dear  and  much  loved  lady  and 
mother,  regent  in  France,  during  our  absence,  it  was  written 
unto  you  and  ordered  that  you  would  please  not  to  proceed 
in  any  way  whatever  with  the  matter  of  Sieur  Herquin,  lately 
detained  a  prisoner,  until  we  should  have  been  able  to  return 
to  this  our  kingdom,  you  have  nevertheless,  at  the  r. 
and  pursuance  of  his  ill-wishers,  so  far  proceeded  with  his 
business  that  you  have  come  to  a  definitive  judgment  of  it. 
Whereat  we  cannot  be  too  much  astounded.  .  .  .  For  this 
cause  we  do  will  and  command  upon  you  .  .  that  you 
are  not  to  proceed  to  execute  of  the  said  judgment,  which, 
as  the  report  is,  you  have  pronounced  against  the  said  iVr 
quin,  but  shall  put  him  himself  and  the  depositions  and  the 
proceedings  in  his  said  trial  in  such  safe  keeping  that  you 
may  be  able  to  answer  to  us  for  them.  .  .  .  And  take  care 
that  you  make  no  default  therein,  for  we  do  warn  you  that  if 
default  there  be,  we  shall  look  to  such  of  you  as  shall  seem 
good  to  us  to  answer  to  us  for  it." 

"Then,"  proceeded  Ami,  "he  tried  to  get  Erasn 
reply,  but  his  prudence   forbade   it  ;  "   and    the    young 
knight  added,  "I  cannot  help  wishing  F.ri-m'i^  wcrr  not 
so  prudent,  or  Berquin  were  not  so  bold." 


THE  ZEAL   OF  HERESY.  159 

"Yes,"  said  the  beautiful  Marguerite.  "  Then  Beda  — " 
"  Who  is  anxious  to  get  me  to  the  East." 
"  Then  Beda,"  proceeded  she,  not  without  a  manifes- 
tation of  sadness  at  the  thought  of  Ami's  going,  —  "  Beda 
made  accusation  against  Berquin.  The  struggle  between 
his  Majesty  and  the  court  over  Berquin's  privileges  in 
prison  followed  a  letter  which  I  wrote  to  my  brother 
Francis.  When  I  could  take  the  scholar  from  the 
Louvre,  and  when  he  was  in  my  service,  I  wrote  to 
Montmorency  these  words  :  '  I  thank  you  for  the  pleas- 
ure you  have  done  me  in  the  matter  of  poor  Berquin, 
whom  I  esteem  as  much  as  if  he  were  myself;  and  so 
you  may  say  that  you  have  delivered  me  from  prison, 
since  I  consider  in  that  light  the  pleasure  done  to  me.' 
But  I  could  not  manage  Sieur  Berquin  at  all.  He  again 
attacked  the  monks  and  the  infidelity  of  the  Church. 
Erasmus  wrote  to  him,  begging  him  to  cease.  Again  I 
pleaded  with  my  noble  brother  the  king.  '  Poor  Ber- 
quin/ wrote  I,  '  who  through  your  goodness  holds  that 
God  has  twice  preserved  his  life,  throws  himself  upon 
you,  having  no  longer  any  one  to  whom  he  can  have  re- 
course, for  to  give  you  to  understand  his  innocence ;  and 
whereas,  Monseigneur,  I  know  the  esteem  in  which  you 
hold  him,  and  the  desire  he  hath  always  had  to  do  you 
service,  I  do  not  fear  to  entreat  you  by  letter  instead  of 
speech  to  be  pleased  to  have  pity  on  him.  And  if  it 
please  you  to  show  signs  of  taking  his  matter  to  heart, 
I  hope  that  the  truth  which  he  will  make  to  appear,  will 
convict  the  forgers  of  heretics  of  being  slanderers  and  dis- 
obedient toward  you,  rather  than  zealots  for  the  faith.' 

"  Once  more,"  continued  Marguerite  of  Navarre,  "  he 
was  tried  and  set  at  liberty.  Who  could  help  standing 
near  him?  The  grace  of  God  was  upon  him.  I  should 
have  gone  with  him  through  a  thousand  condemnations. 
But,  Ami,  bid  him  now  hold  his  excited  soul  in  peace  for 
a  while.  If  the  enemies  think  him  concerned  in  the 


l6o  AfO.YA'  .-/.\7>   K'XJGHT. 

breaking  of  the  images,  Chancellor  I  Hiprat  and  even  the 
Queen  Regent  of  France,  my  mother,  will  urge  upon  the 
King  his  death." 

June  ist  had  witnessed  what  the  Catholics  insisted, 
with  some  justice,  was  a  revolting  infamy ;  what  the 
Reformers  regretted  to  say  was  a  too  careless  assertion 
of  their  protest  against  superstitions. 

The  image  of  Notre  Dame  de  Pierre  stood  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  in  the  rear  of  the  Church  Petit 
St.  Antoine.  It  was  especially  reverenced  by  the  devout. 
That  night,  with  the  sounding  of  heavy  hammers,  the 
image  was  broken.  The  head  of  the  Virgin  and  that  of 
the  child  were  cut  off.  The  whole  city  was  immediately 
aroused  with  indignation.  Even  Ami  was  heard  to  say, 
as  he  saw  the  King  weeping,  — 

"  The  Reformers  of  France  are  as  coarse  as  is  Luther 
himself." 

At  every  roadway  a  man  stood  with  a  trumpet,  pro- 
claiming, by  order  of  his  Majesty,  an  offer  of  one  thousand 
golden  crowns  for  the  apprehension  of  the  miscreants. 
Every  house  was  searched  ;  processions  of  outraged  Cath- 
olics visited  the  spot  of  the  profanation.  In  ten  days 
the  King  of  France,  inflamed  by  the  hot  words  of  the 
queen  regent  and  Chancellor  Duprat,  marched  with 
bare  head  to  the  sacred  place.  The  clergy  and  parish  of 
St.  Paul  followed  his  reverent  figure.  Cardinals  and 
nobles  surrounded  him.  Each  carried  a  white  waxen 
taper.  The  clarions  and  trumpets  made  a  din  of  con- 
fused melodies ;  and  the  archers  showed  the  purpose  of 
the  realm  to  avenge  the  monstrous  outrage. 

With  the  awful  memory  of  that  scene,  Ami  could  not 
but  feel  a  secret  fear  gnawing  at  his  heart,  as  he  parted 
with  the  courageous  zealot,  —  his  teacher  and  friend, 
Louis  de  Berquin. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

SERVANT   OF  THE   HOLY   CHURCH. 

"  To  paradise  the  gloomy  passage  winds 
Through  regions  drear  and  dismal,  and  through  pain 
Emerging  soon  in  beatific  blaze 
Of  light." 

WE  last  saw  Vian  at  the  home  of  Sir  Thomas  More. 
As  he  returned  to  Hampton  Court,  he  felt  a 
premonition  that  his  relationships  with  one  who  had  been 
so  much  to  him  were  sure  to  end  very  soon.  More  had 
frankly  told  him  that  Wolsey's  aims  and  methods  did  not 
commend  themselves  to  his  good  judgment,  and  that  he 
foresaw  a  rupture  between  himself  and  the  cardinal  near 
at  hand. 

"  I  shall  not  allow  my  affection  for  you,  Vian,  to  de- 
prive you  from  being  of  inestimable  benefit  to  England. 
Nay,  I  love  England  too  well  to  be  cold  in  my  desires 
that  you  should  assist  the  Lord  Cardinal  in  the  establish- 
ment of  his  colleges,"  said  More,  who,  even  as  speaker  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  was  beginning  to  avoid  Henry's 
court. 

Vian  was  soon  under  the  spell  exercised  by  a  scheme 
which  so  thoroughly  coincided  with  his  tastes  and  opin- 
ions. Despite  his  desire  for  the  publication  of  the 
English  Bible,  he  had  at  length  been  persuaded  that  the 
England  which  he  had  come  to  worship  had  no  place  for 

VOL.   II.  —  II 


1 62  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

William  Tyndale  and  his  translation  of  the  Scriptures. 
The  common  people  could  not  read ;  there  were  none  to 
teach  them.  What  Kngland  appeared  to  requin 
presented  in  the  idea  of  Wolsey,  out  of  which  Vian  saw 
rising  the  beauty  and  wealth  of  Oxford.  Wolsey's  plan  of 
building  the  new  colleges  had  in  no  way  neglected  the 
men  of  "  the  new  learning ;  "  indeed,  they  were  often 
selected  as  lecturers.  It  involved  the  destruction  of  the 
smaller  monasteries,  each  of  which,  in  Vian's  opinion, 
nursed  Romish  despotism  in  Kngland,  and  increased  the 
difficulty  in  the  way  of  that  untrammelled  intellectual  life 
to  the  progress  of  which  he  was  willing  to  devote  his  life. 
Vian  was  blind  to  the  splendid  pomp  of  Wolsey,  which 
was  becoming  very  offensive  to  those  who  could  find  in 
straying  copies  of  Tyndale's  translation  a  different  concep- 
tion of  power.  Yian  was  blind  to  this,  because  of  his 
admiration  of  the  cardinal's  industry  in  turning  the  wealth 
of  the  monastic  houses  toward  the  new  college 
Thomas  More  grew  more  fierce  in  his  opposition  to  a 
man  who  appeared  to  him  only  desirous  to  increase  his 
authority  by  transferring  power  to  these  institutions  of 
which  he  was  master,  Vian  became  enthusiastic  in  his 
praise,  because  it  seemed  that  learning  instead  of  igno- 
rance, idleness,  and  iniquity  should  hereafter  exercise 
rule. 

"  England  will  be  less  answerable  to  the  Pope  if  there 
be  more  colleges,"  argued  he. 

Soon  the  time  came  when  England's  king  was  in  need 
of  an  immunity  from  papal  authority.  Once  again  had 
a  pope  deceased  ;  once  again  had  Wolsey  failed  of  elec- 
tion at  the  hands  of  the  conclave ;  and  Henry  VIII.  had 
met  and  loved  the  channing  Anne  Boleyn.  Foxe  and 
Gardiner  had  made  a  trip  to  the  feet  of  his  Holiness  in 
behalf  of  Henry's  scruples  as  to  the  legitimacy  of  his 
marriage  with  Katherine  ;  but  the  trip  was  in  vain.  Vian, 
close  to  the  sovereign,  in  his  desire  to  make  England 


SERVANT  OF  THE   HOLY  CHURCH.  163 

powerful  and  independent,  easily  passed  into  sympathy 
with  the  king,  believed  in  the  necessity  for  a  divorce,  and 
of  course,  when  he  was  not  quite  sure,  bolstered  up  his 
belief  in  the  righteousness  of  this  cause  for  dispute  by 
rejoicing  in  anything  which  might  point  toward  a  triumph 
for  Henry  and  the  cardinal. 

"  But  for  the  fact  that  I  am  a  Pythagorean,  I  had  my- 
self confessed  that  the  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  Boleyn  is 
beautiful,"  said  he  to  Wolsey,  as  he  obtained  the  cardi- 
nal's instructions. 

"  Would  that  the  king  were  a  Pythagorean!"  replied 
Wolsey,  shaking  his  head  sadly. 

Vian  was  now  quite  sure  that  his  suspicion  that  Wolsey 
was  losing  ground  with  Henry  VIII.  was  well  founded. 
However,  he  resolved  to  labor,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  for  the  development  of  Oxford,  which  he  had 
come  to -believe  to  be  the  task  of  his  life. 

Above  the  horizon  another  bright  and  steady  star, 
somewhat  overclouded,  often  baleful  in  its  wandering 
rays,  had  risen.  Thomas  Cromwell  had  come  to  be 
Wolsey's  accredited  agent  in  the  dissolution  of  the 
smaller  monasteries.  Vian's  associations  with  this  able 
man  of  affairs  had  made  him  stand  in  awe  of  this  most 
astute  and  rigorous  politician/  Bent  on  the  endow- 
ment of  Oxford,  Vian  estimated  Cromwell  as  a  successful 
destroyer  of  monasteries  with  the  same  liberality  that  he 
used  with  More,  years  before,  when  Vian's  mind  was  in 
need  of  a  different  kind  of  help.  He  had  seen  Crom- 
well persuade  a  displeased  king,  while  he  was  learning  to 
master  the  business  of  the  State.  He  had  beheld  him 
"  leaning  in  the  great  window,  with  a  primer  in  his  hand, 
saying  of  Our  Lady's  matins,"  as  he  placed  in  Vian's 
hand  an  order  for  the  plate  of  a  doomed  priory  or  abbey. 
Our  aims  sanctify  the  servants  which  realize  them.  The 
great  minister  and  cardinal  was  yet  in  his  position  of 
authority;  now,  however,  more  anxious  to  put  down 


1 64  J/aVA'  AX/)   K'NIGHT. 

heresy  than  aforetime.  Henry  VIII.  was  smiling  still  on 
Oxford,  though  intolerant  of  the  scholars  who  objected 
to  the  divorce.  Cromwell  was  pouring  wealth  into  the 
colleges,  though  he  was  cruel  and  rapacious.  Oxford 
filled  Vian's  eye;  and  he  therefore  saw  nothing  else 
clearly. 

There  was  a  time  of  awakening  coming,  as  to  the  trem- 
ulous condition  of  WoNry's  fortune-:  and  the  cardinal, 
to  whom  Vian  was  so  admiringly  attached,  would  soon 
require  this  monk,  who  was  yet  under  his  vow,  for  other 
services. 

In  the  proceedings  in  behalf  of  the  king's  divorce, 
which  had  dragged  through  more  than  three  years, 
Henry  VIII.  had  often  become  dimple a>ed  with  the  car- 
dinal;  and  Anne  Boleyn  had  grown  indignant. 
the  cardinal  had  become  alarmed.  Campeggio,  the 
papal  legate,  had  shown  by  his  own  independence  of 
action  that  of  the  Pope  Clement  VII.  Vian  saw,  behind 
the  shadows,  Katherine's  nephew,  Charles  V.  Private  in- 
formation had  reached  the  ears  of  \\  r'riend  that 
Charles  V.  had  insinuated  to  his  Holiness  that  neither 
Francis  I.  nor  Henry  VIII.  had  any  loyal  feeling  t< 
the  papal  see. 

'•Why,"  said  Charles  V.,  "even  now,  in  the  king- 
dom of  France,  are  followers  of  Peter  Waldo.  The  King 
of  the  French  allows  heresy  in  his  realm,  and  is  con>tant 
at  beseeching  favors  at  Rome.  As  for  Henry  of  Kngland. 
his  cardinal  Wolsey  would  be  pope  even  now.  1 1  e  himself 
will  yield  nothing  to  the  papal  tiara." 

months  thereafter,  a  papal  nuncio,  of  courtly  man- 
ners and  signal  ability,  had  placed  the  mind  of  the  Pope 
before  Francis  I.  Francis  was  in  the  midst  of  new  em- 
barrassments. Marguerite  —  although  now  Marguerite, 
Queen  of  Navarre  —  had  encouraged  the  Reformers. 
William  Farel  had  escaped,  going  toward  Geneva.  Lu- 
theranism  was  growing,  in  spite  of  Duprat.  The  King  of 


SERVANT  OF   THE   HOLY  CHURCH.  165 

France  had  also  allowed  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  to  be 
insulted  ;  and  at  any  moment  he  was  likely  to  lose  this 
Genoese  ally.  Charles  V.  had  not  won  Francis  I.  by  the 
gift  of  Eleanor  to  be  his  wife ;  the  treaty  of  Madrid  was 
broken  ;  Clement  VII.  distrusted  him. 

Anxious  to  attach  the  Pope  to  his  threatened  fortunes, 
Louise  of  Savoy  had  persuaded  Francis  I.  to  pledge  an 
expedition  of  twenty  young  knights  to  proceed  against 
the  Waldensians ;  and  the  satisfied  nuncio  was  soon  in 
England,  negotiating  with  Wolsey. 

August  20,  1529,  Thomas  Wolsey,  Lord  Cardinal,  trem- 
bling upon  the  edge  of  complete  disaster,  ready  to  do 
anything  to  gain  power  with  Clement  VII.,  embraced 
Vian,  gave  him  his  blessing,  and  said,  —  . 

"  You  shall  precede  the  French  knights,  who,  through 
the  messenger  from  his  Holiness,  will  need  your  advice 
as  to  the  method  and  time  of  attacking  the  heretics. 
Vian,  I  can  do  no  other  than  this.  May  God  return  you 
to  us,  as  He  will,  doubtless,  with  honor  !  " 

Vian  was  prepared  to  prove  his  faithfulness  to  Wolsey, 
the  cardinal's  faithfulness  to  Rome,  and  his  own  valor. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THI  CLOUDS. 

Why  are  we  weighed  down  with  heaviness, 
And  utterly  consumed  with  >hurp  dMress, 
While  all  things  else  ha  weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we  toil  alone? 

:ily  toil  who  are  the  first  of  things, 
And  make  perpetual  moan, 
Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown  ; 

tet.'p  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm ; 
Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"There  is  no  joy  but  calm  ! " 
\Yhy  should  we  only  toil :  the  roof  and  crown  of  things  ? 

VSON. 

NINE  months  had  elapsed  since  Ami  had  bid   fare- 
well to  Astre"e  at  the  palace  of  St.  C.rrmain. 

"  Never  was  the  court  of  my  Caesar  so  free  from  petty 
annoyances  about  reformations  in  the  Holy  Church  ! 
Never  was  his  Majesty  so  untroubled  with  heretical 
scholars  like  Louis  de  Berquin  !  " 

Louise  of  Savoy,  truly  Queen  Regent  of  France  in 
spite  of  Queen  Eleanor,  was  speaking  to  her  daughter 
Marguerite  concerning  the  long  absence  of  Ami,  whom 
she  appreciated  as  Queen  of  N  id  whom  Ami 

appreciated  as  the  one  personal  influence  likely  to  put 
her  brother  into  profounder  sympathy  with  the 
sance  and  ihe  Reformation. 


THICKENING   CLOUDS.  167 

"He  has  been  absent  from  us  too  long,"  said  the 
latter,  with  a  tender  note  of  sadness.  "  Nine  long 
months,  and  what  dreadful  questions  have  come  !  " 

"  None  that  Ami  could  have  rightly  answered,"  was 
the  stiff  remark  of  the  queen  regent. 

"  Ah,  I  know  not,  I  know  not ;  but  I  believe  that  if 
my  brother  had  —  " 

"  His  Majesty,  your  sovereign  !  "  haughtily  interposed 
the  queen  regent,  who  had  often  been  annoyed  at  the 
great  influence  of  her  daughter  upon  the  court  of  her 
son. 

"  I  love  him,  I  honor  him.  I  love  him  so  much  that 
I  wish  that  Ami  had  remained  in  France.  Had  he  re- 
mained and  counselled,  as  his  wisdom  permitted,  Ad- 
miral Andrea  Doria  would  not  have  joined  the  hosts  of 
Charles  V.,  his  Majesty's  enemy." 

"Andrea  Doria  was  a  'base  traitor,  a  lover  of 
Genoa,  —  " 

"  His  own  dear  city  and  home  !  " 

"  'T  is  true ;  but  his  loyalty  had  been  given  to  the 
King  of  France." 

"  And  the  courtiers  of  France  were  allowed  to  break 
it,"  said  Marguerite,  firmly. 

"  Daughter  and  Queen,  we  must  not  quarrel.  Ami 
will  return  soon  enough  ;  "  and  then  the  queen  regent, 
in  her  most  autocratic  manner,  added :  "  Astre"e  and 
your  Majesty  will  behold  the  face  of  the  young  knight 
to-morrow." 

The  sister  of  Francis  I.  was  full  of  rejoicing,  and  she 
hastened  at  once  with  queenly  sympathy  to  inform  the 
lovely  Astr£e. 

Marguerite  of  Navarre  neither  overestimated  the  im- 
portance of  the  events  of  the  last  nine  months,  nor  the 
probable  influence  which  Ami  would  have  exercised 
upon  them.  She  knew  how  thoroughly  her  mother  had 
laid  her  plans  for  his  absence.  She  also  was  aware  that 


1 68  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

the  young  knight  was  glad  to  absent  himself  from  a  court 
which  had  nothing  but  opposition  to  his  statesmanlike 
propositions  and  his  religious  experiences. 

When  Heda,  dreading  his  influence  upon  the  king, 
had  proposed  to  the  queen  regent"  to  arrange  the  ex- 
pedition to  a  distant  monastery  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  manuscripts,  Ami  was  sirk  at  heart  at  the 
dissolution  of  all  prospects  for  untrammelled  >rholar- 
ship  and  wise  reform,  and  sick  even  of  the  Reformers 
themselves. 

The  priesthood  still  regarded  him  a  faithful,  but  erratic 
Catholic.  He  himself  had  come  back  to  the  opinion 
that  Lutheranism,  in  its  current  dealt 

with  more  stringently.       He   had   re  n  his   ab- 

sence, to  find  a  standing-ground  for  his  own  faith,  that 
he  might  more  wisely  influence  the  faith  of  the  king. 
What  could  afford  a  better  opportunity  for  his  mind  to 
settle  its  future  course  than  this  lengthy  bibliographical 
tour? 

Letters  had  come  from  Ami  to  the  king,  which  showed 
that  his  mind  was  turning  with  more  loyal  reverence  to 
the  Holy  Church.  In  the  light  of  these,  the  queen 
regent  was  more  willing  to  have  him  with  her  son.  Ami, 
she  was  now  sure,  would  be  less  critical  of  the  clergy, 
and  less  friendly  to  the  foes  of  the  Church,  on  1 
turn.  The  University  of  Paris,  the  library  of  the  king, 
and  the  peace  of  France  might  profit  now  at  his  early 
arrival ;  for  he  was  laden  with  manuscripts. 

"  Of  course,  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  keep  his  hands 
out  of  our  statecraft,"  said  the  wise  Louise  ;  and  tossing 
her  head  :  "  But  he  cannot  disturb  our  plans  at  once. 
He  is  cautious.  He  will  have  to  take  time  to  compre- 
hend the  events  which  have  transpired ; "  and  then  she 
greatly  comforted  her  orthodoxy  and  hope  for  peace,  by 
adding :  "  He  may,  if  he  wants  to  prove  his  knighthood 
and  serve  the  Holy  Church,  which  some  of  his  friends 


THICKENING  CLOUDS.  169 

have  so  often  reviled,  —  he  may  lead  the  secret  expe- 
dition against  the  Waldensians." 

She  really  chuckled  at  the  idea  of  a  Waldensian  mur- 
dering a  Waldensian. 

True,  significant  events  had  transpired. 

Ami  was  sure  to  find  that  the  great  changes  of  the  last 
few  months  linked  themselves  with  all  the  events  which 
had  succeeded  the  return  of  the  king  from  Madrid, 
and  showed  how  completely  Francis  I.  had  failed  to 
comprehend  his  significant  era.  Some  of  those  earlier 
events  had  accompanied  Ami  like  ghosts.  Nothing, 
however,  so  haunted  him  as  the  sacrifice  and  death  of 
Bourbon,  the  old  lover  of  Marguerite. 

"Slay!  slay!  Blood!  blood!  Bourbon,  Bourbon  !"  — 
the  shout  of  the  soldiers  of  the  constable,  when  they 
learned  of  his  death  in  sight  of  Rome,  —  had  rung  through 
the  soul  of  Ami,  as  the  latter  stood  in  the  damp  cellars 
of  ancient  monasteries,  seeking  to  read  the  red  and  yellow 
parchments. 

Benvenuto  Cellini,  it  was  said,  had  then  fired  the  shot 
which  was  fatal  to  a  man  of  whom  Francis  I.  had  been 
jealous,  to  whom  the  mother  of  his  Majesty  had  been 
resentful  because  he  would  not  return  a  wicked  love,  and 
who,  in  spite  of  Ami's  wise  protests,  had  been  transformed 
into  a  revengeful  enemy  of  France. 

Another  matter  had  disquieted  him.  Louise  of  Savoy 
knew  that  Ami  had  left  France  fearing  that  the  king 
would  lose  Andrea  Doria  from  his  service.  And  now 
Mme.  de  Chateaubriand's  brother  Lautrec  had  seen  the 
king's  old  ally,  Andrea  Doria,  blockade  Naples,  while  his 
own  army  was  stricken  with  famine  and  the  plague.  It 
would  be  impossible,  as  everybody  about  the  court  knew, 
for  either  Ami  or  the  king  to  forget  how  often  the  saga- 
cious young  knight  had  besought  his  Majesty  to  respect 
the  feelings  of  the  admiral,  and  to  honor  the  commerce 
of  Genoa.  The  king's  mother  was  sure  that  the  news  of 


I/O  MONK  AND  K'XIGHT. 

Andrea  Dona's  revolt  might  be  kept  from  Ami  until  some- 
thing could  be  done  to  regain  the  power  thus  lost. 

The  Spanish  half  of  Charles  V.'s  dominion  was  now 
connected  with  the  German  half.  Ami  had  often  begged 
his  royal  friend  to  leave  the  influences  of  his  favorites, 
even  to  break  with  a  plan  of  Louise  of  Savoy,  and  thus 
to  prevent  the  advance  of  the  fortunes  of  his  antagonist 
the  emperor. 

The  treaty  of  Barcelona  between  the  Pope  and  Km 
peror  Charles  had  been  signed  in  June.      The  shrewd 
Louise  knew  that  Ami  could  not  but  feel  a  sickening  sor- 
row when  he  should  read  "  the  Ladies'  Peace." 

The  man  whom  none  could  trust,  Duprat,  who  had 
meanwhile  been  made  a  bishop,  had  again  brought  Franc  c 
to  shame  by  debasing  the  coin  wherewith  Chai 
to  have  been  paid  for  the  release  of  the  French  princes. 
Ami  had  long  ago  described  the  real  character  of  this 
minister  so  frequently  and  so  truly,  th  of  Savoy, 

who  could  use  Duprat  so  easily,  called  the  \Valdi 
"  a  hateful  nuisance." 

Francis  I.  had  been  made  defiant  and  theatrical  by  his 
captivity.  Ami.  with  all  wisdom  and  affection,  had  often 
urged  upon  him  the  lesson  of  obedience  to  law  ;  but  now 
the  Parliament  of  Paris  was  already  impelled  to  say  to  the 
king,  — 

"  \Ve  know  well  that  you  are  above  the  laws  ;  still  we 
venture  to  say  that  you  ought  not  to  will,  nor  should 
desire  to  will,  all  that  you  can." 

Before  his  departure  Ami  had  roused  the  hate  of  Louise, 
when  he  asserted  the  fact  that  Francis,  in  the  treaty  of 
Madrid,  was  about  to  imprison  his  own  children  to  save 
his  own  freedom  ;  and  now  the  world  knew  it.  He  had 
tried  to  translate  for  the  ruler's  ear  the  cry  of  the 
antry,  who  stared  while  the  king  purchased  bronzes, 
furs,  velvets,  beasts,  birds,  palaces,  furniture,  and  gor- 
geous jewels  for  his  favorite,  who  had  very  soon 


THICKENING   CLOUDS.  \J\ 

become  offensive  as  Duchesse  d'fitampes;  and  even 
Marguerite  had  grown  a  little  weary  of  this  amateur  states- 
manship. The  clergy  were  growing  more  corrupt  and 
the  people  more  ignorant,  on  a  theory  of  popular  mis- 
government,  which  the  young  knight  had  often  declared 
the  basis  of  a  public  crime.  The  court  was  welcoming 
the  Renaissance  and  trying  to  shut  out  the  Reformation. 
Louise  of  Savoy  was  still  more  anxious  than  before  for 
the  presence  of  Erasmus,  since  he  had  quarrelled  with 
Luther.  She  remembered  that  Ami  had  already  told  her 
fearlessly  that  France  needed  a  William  Farel,  whom  he 
had  afterward  rescued  from  her  and  Duprat.  The  Ger- 
man movement,  under  Luther,  was  fiercely  hated ;  and 
now.  nothing  so  roused  the  ire  of  the  queen  regent,  or 
disgusted  her  son,  as  the  reflection  that  Queen  Margue- 
rite once  nearly  succeeded  in  influencing  his  Majesty 
toward  Lutheranism. 

Surely  much  had  transpired.  Marguerite  of  Navarre 
was  quite  certain,  from  the  letters  which  she  had  read 
from  Ami,  that  his  protesting  spirit  had  sensibly  cooled 
while  he  had  been  rummaging  in  the  monasteries.  She 
assured  her  mother  that  he  would  be  more  tractable.  She 
was  quite  as  sure  that  he  would  be  more  able  to  influence 
her  brother  the  king  toward  a  wiser  statesmanship,  if  Ami 
had  meanwhile  become  a  more  devout  Catholic. 

As  for  herself,  she  was,  it  was  true,  still  favorable  to  the 

Reform,  still  writing  verses,  still  rejoicing  with  her  brother's 

new  favorite  and  helping  their  intrigues,  still  anxious  to 

translate  the  Psalms  and  to  hear  the  latest  Monkish  tale, 

—  still  the  inconsistent,  brilliant  charm  of  the  court. 

She  was,  one  evening,  wondering  with  the  king  about 
the  policy  of  the  proposed  secret  expedition  to  extermi- 
nate some  leaders  of  the  Waldensians,  when  the  king  re- 
peated to  her  what  he  had  often  said,  — 

"  I  have  been  accused  by  his  Holiness  of  having  heresy 
in  my  own  realm  whenever  I  have  sought  a  favor  at  Rome. 


1/2  MONK  AND   h'XICHT. 

I  cannot  protect  the  Waldensians  who  are  in  correspond- 
ence with  Luther  and  Farel.  I  shall  give  his  Holiness 
twenty  knights." 

Francis  1.  had  freely  confessed  his  strong  desire  that 
Ami  should  lead  the  expedition.  Grave  doubts,  however, 
arose  in  his  mind.  His  Majesty  thought  Ami  would  now 
be  so  agitated  by  what  Francis  had  called  "  the  unfortu- 
nate Berquin  affair,"  that  he  would  be  uncontrollable. 

"  It  will  be  well  for  him  to  prove  his  faith  to  the  Church 
and  to  you,"  said  the  queen  regent.  u  Let  him  lead  a 
company  of  trained  soldiers,  each  of  whom  is  to  look  out 
for  himself,  into  the  country  of  the  Waldensian^.  There 
can  be  no  danger  of  his  killing  or  encountering  his  own 
friends,  think  you?  His  father  must  be  dead  long  ago ; 
and  he  lived  in  Piedmont,  —  leagues  away  from  the  well- 
known  spot  where  the  leaders  now  write  their  heretical 
letters  to  I'lric  Xwingh  and  Martin  Luther,  and  foment 
discontent  in  our  realm.  His  Holiness  is  right;  and 
you  must  exterminate  the  correspondents  of  these  arch- 
heretics.  So  long  as  these  who  are  our  French  heretics 
write  to  the  German  and  Swiss  leaders,  and  you  know  it, 
we  are  in  no  wise  worthy  of  papal  benedictions.  Ami 
owes  everything  to  yourself.  Perhaps  he  is  not  ungrate- 
ful. If  Ami  would  have  us  believe  him  honest,  if  he  would 
serve  the  Church,  let  him  lead  the  way.  WoKey's  mes- 
senger, who  will  doubtless  be  a  valiant  duke  desiring  honor, 
will  precede  him  ;  and  he  will  send  back  to  our  French 
contingent,  as  it  follows  him,  such  information  about  that 
vile  rendezvous  for  heretics  as  will  enable  the  twenty 
knights  to  strike  and  annihilate  the  heresy  at  a  blow." 

The  eyes  of  Louise  of  Savoy  were  bright  with  a  lurid 
glow,  furnishing  a  strange  contrast  with  her  pale,  haggard 
face.  She  hoped  in  her  deepest  soul  that  Ami  would  go 
and  never  return.  His  statesmanship  and  her  policies 
could  never  live  in  peace  together. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AMI  AND  THE  DEATH  OF  BERQUIN. 

If  you  are  wise,  repress  your  encomiums;  do  not  disturb  the  hornets, 
and  spend  your  time  in  your  favorite  studies.  At  all  events,  do  not  involve 
me,  for  the  consequences  might  be  inconvenient  for  us  both.  —  Erasmus 
to  Louis  de  Berquin. 

ON  the  morning  of  Sept.  6,  1529,  every  ray  of  light 
seemed  to  linger  in  unwonted  happiness  upon 
the  expanses  of  green  which  stretched  away  from  the 
ancient  chateau  of  Chambord.  The  gloomy  old  pal- 
ace had,  a  short  time  before,  been  decorated  anew  -in 
the  name  of  a  love  which  was  now  dead ;  but  the  Du- 
chesse  d'Etampes  was  enjoying  the  newly  transformed 
archways  quite  as  thoroughly  as  she  had  expected  to  rel- 
ish the  ownership  of  the  mountings  for  Mme.  de  Chateau- 
briand's jewels,  bearing  the  salamander  crest  of  Francis, 
and  graven  with  the  amorous  wit  of  the  king's  sister. 

In  this  latter  joy  she  was  disappointed.  She  had  seen 
the  mountings  of  the  case  only  as  they  had  appeared  in 
the  form  of  ugly  ingots,  into  which  the  elegant  devices 
had  been  melted  by  the  fire  of  Madame's  resentment ; 
but  the  duchesse  nevertheless  enjoyed  the  Moorish  pa- 
vilion, in  which  she  often  sat  with  the  king  as  much  as' 
though  Francis  had  never  been  in  love  before. 

Everything  was  astir.  Wine  was  flowing  in  ruby 
streams  into  goblets  glistening  with  artistic  elegance. 
The  king  had  been  busily  engaged  with  a  minister  of  the 


174  MOM  AND  KNIGHT. 

court,   who   was   inscribing   upon    the    ivory  tablet  the 
names  of  those  knights  who  were  to  comprise  the 
expedition  into  the  Alps.     Precious  stones  emblazoned 
the  messenger  of  his  Holiness,  who  stood  near  and  gave 
his  invaluable  counsel. 

"  We  must  be  brief  in  our  converse,"  said  the  king, 
who  was  always  weary  of  business.  "The  huntsmen  are 
ready;  the  animals  are  likely  now  to  be  best  fitted  for 
the  chase  ;  "  and  turning  to  the  solemnly  gazing  repre- 
sentative of  the  Pope,  "  I  would  have  you  be  seated  at 
the  banquet,  after  the  sport,  at  the  side  of  Ami,  the  young 
Bayard  of  France.  He  has  just  come  back  to  us  from 
the  far  East." 

The  messenger  simply  made  an  Italian  courtesy. 

In  a  short  time  the  king  was  wildly  engaged  in  the 
chase.  The  gay  colors,  the  rapid  motions,  the  splendid 
horsemanship  made  a  brilliant  spectacle. 

At  the  window  —  on  which  Francis  afterward 
a  distich  on  the  inconstancy  of  woman  —  was  to  be  ob- 
served another  scene  quite  different.     The  person 
hie  were  Ami,  Astr£e,  and  the  old   friend   of  Berquin, 
William  Bud£,  the  scholar  and  book-lover. 

Erasmus  himself  had  said  of  Bude :  "  Among  many 
thousands  of  men  you  will  not  find  any  of  higher  integrity, 
and  more  versed  in  polite  letters."  Perhaps  no  two  im -n 
in  France  more  truly  represented  the  spirit  of  reaction  in 
the  Sorbonne  and  the  spirit  of  progress  in  sound  learning, 
than  Beda  and  Bude*. 

Until  this  morning  Ami  had  not  seen  the  king  since 
the  hour  when  he  set  out  for  the  manuscripts  of  that 
remote  monastery;  and  he  knew  nothing  of  \rhat  had 
occurred  meanwhile,  save  that  his  love  for  Astree  was 
deeper  and  more  sweet.  William  Bud£  had  not  been 
in  the  presence  of  his  Majesty  since  the  death  of  Ami's 
friend  Berquin. 

It  was  a  great  joy  for  Ami  to  meet  with  such  a  scholar 


AMI  AND    THE  DEATH  OF  BERQUIN.        175 

as  Bude  after  so  long  a  pilgrimage.  The  knight  was  full 
to  overflowing  of  bibliographical  lore.  It  was  an  unex- 
pected feature  of  the  day  to  find  this  broad  and  liberal 
scholar  at  his  side,  instead  of  Beda,  in  whom  Erasmus  had 
said  "there  are  three  thousand  monks." 

"Surely,"  thought  Ami,  "  the  king  has  grown  more 
tolerant ;  I,  on  the  other  hand,  have  grown  to  be  less 
tolerant." 

He  hardly  knew  how  Bude  would  look  upon  his  fresh 
hostility  to  the  Reformers.  However,  he  was  bound  to 
talk  only  of  manuscripts.  Ami  had  known  him  much  as 
history  knows  him  to-day,  —  a  wealthy  book- buyer  at  the 
first ;  then  a  patient  and  ambitious  learner  at  the  feet  of 
scholars ;  then  a  friend  of  Nouvisset,  of  whom  he  had 
learned  Greek ;  later,  a  traveller  to  Rome  and  Venice, 
reading  manuscripts,  and  beginning  to  write  his  famous 
"  Commentaries"  on  the  Greek  ;  and,  later  still,  a  laborer 
upon  a  book  on  the  Roman  As,  which  was  to  make  him 
appear  as  a  rival  even  of  Erasmus.  There  was  in  his 
hand  a  letter  from  the  great  scholar,  whom  neither  Astre"e 
nor 'Ami  had  seen;  and  in  his  eye  was  a  tear,  as  the 
young  knight  ended  his  .monologue,  which  related  to  his 
journeys,  the  difficulties  with  monks  and  robbers,  his  dis- 
coveries in  unfrequented  cells,  his  struggles  with  ignorance, 
and  the  labor  of  reading  with  success  a  valuable  palimp- 
sest. Ami  concluded  his  first  enchanting  tale  with  the 
query,  - 

"  And  how  is  Sieur  Berquin  ?  Would  he  were  with  us 
here  !" 

The  scholar  handed  him  a  bit  of  manuscript.  It  was 
not  ancient.  They  entirely  forgot  the  bibliographical 
tour,  as  Ami  read  the  following  words,  which  were  a  copy 
made  by  Bude"  of  the  words  spoken,  April  16,  by  the 
President  of  the  Court  to  Ami's  friend  Berquin. 

Ami's  soul  was  again  being  charged  with  fire  from  on 
high,  while  Astre"e  wept  with  Bude"  the  scholar. 


176  .UO.YA'  AND   A'A'/G//T. 

"  Louis  Berquin  !  "  so  ran  the  speech,  "  you  are  con- 
victed of  having  belonged  to  the  sect  of  Luther,  and  of 
having  made  wicked  books  against  the  majesty  of  God 
and  of  his  glorious  Mother.  In  consequence  we  do  sen- 
tence you  to  make  honorable  amends,  bareheaded  and 
with  waxen  taper  alight  in  your  hand,  in  the  great  court 
of  the  palace,  crying  for  mercy  to  God,  the  king,  and  the 
law,  for  the  offence  by  you  committed.  After  that  you 
will  be  conducted,  bareheaded  and  on  foot,  to  the  Place 
de  Greve,  where  your  books  will  be  burned  before  your 
eyes.  Then  you  will  be  taken  in  front  of  the  church  of 
Notre  Dame,  where  you  will  make  honorable  amends  to 
God  and  to  the  glorious  Virgin,  his  mother.  After  whit  h 
a  hole  will  be  pierced  in  your  tongue,  —  that  member 
wherewith  you  have  sinned.  Lastly,  you  will  be  placed 
in  the  prison  of  Monsieur  de  Paris  (the  bishop),  and 
will  there  be  confined  between  two  stone  walls  for  the 
whole  of  your  life.  And  we  forbid  that  there  ever  be 
given  you  book  to  read  or  pen  and  ink  to  write." 

Here  was  an  unexpected  trial  for  Ami's  new  position. 
Could  he  be  loyal  to  the  hapless  man  whom  he  had 
loved,  and  to  the  other  whom  so  lately  he  had  sworn  anew 
to  revere? 

"Did  he  appeal  to  the  king?"  asked  the  friend  of 
Francis  I. 

"  He  was  incarcerated  at  once.  We  might  have  saved 
him." 

And  you  did  not?"  said  the  knight,  excitedly. 

"The  crowd  gathered,  —  twenty  thousand  thronged 
the  square  and  crossed  the  bridge.  He  would  have 
walked  surrounded  with  arquebusiers  and  archers  through 
the  street.  But  he  appealed  to  the  king." 

Instantly  the  loving  knight,  who  had  been  desperately 
working  up  his  affections  for  Francis  I.,  discovered  the 
reflection  on  his  sovereign. 

•'  You  are  in  his  Majesty's  chateau.     Speak  your  con- 


AMI  AND    THE  DEATH  OF  BERQUIN.        I  77 

tempt  carefully,  if  at  all.     Francis  I.  is  my  friend.     I  am 
a  knight,"  exclaimed  he. 

"And  a  lover  of  truth?"  asked  Bude",  who,  though 
thoroughly  surprised,  still  thought  he  knew  Ami. 

The  knight  found  himself  where  he  had  not  been  for 
two  years,  —  where  he  dared  not  answer  that  question. 

Things  had  indeed  changed.  He  had  determined  to 
be  a  faithful,  even  a  persecuting  Catholic,  if  necessary. 
Again  had  his  unspeakably  intense  jealousy  of  that  Eng- 
lish monk  Vian  driven  him  from  any  sort  of  desire  to 
join  with  the  Reformers.  He  had  been  changed  by  this 
evil  spirit.  At  Florence,  an  English  abbot  who  was  trav- 
elling in  Italy  told  him  that  only  Wolsey,  who  was  a 
politician  without  piety,  believed  in  the  orthodoxy  of 
Vian;  that  the  late  Abbot  Richard,  of  Glastonbury, 
had  distrusted  him  and  was  glad  to  have  the  abbey  rid 
of  his  presence ;  that  probably  before  that  hour  Vian 
himself  had  fled  to  the  Reformers  and  joined  their  ranks. 

That  information  had  been  sufficient  to  rouse  the 
most  furious  of  the  fires  in  Ami's  soul.  His  jealousy 
had  leaped  again,  like  a  hungry  tiger,  upon  his  growing 
love  of  the  Reforming  movement.  This  beastly  and  mur- 
derous passion  had  sucked  almost  every  drop  of  the  life- 
blood  from  -his  convictions.  Even  his  conscience  had 
faund  itself  a  drooping  energy. 

He  hated  the  idea  of  walking  in  Vian's  path,  even  if  it 
led  Godward.  His  whole  soul  had  been  a  battle-ground. 
He  had  despised  priestcraft,  ignorance,  fraud,  infamies, 
indulgences  ;  he  had  loved  Farel,  Berquin,  Lefevre,  and 
goodness.  That  was  one  fact  feeding  a  Waldensian 
conscience. 

He  loathed  Vian,  who  once  supplanted  him  as  a  scholar 
in  the  eyes  of  Francis  I.,  who  also  had  once  touched 
Astree's  hand  with  what  he  would  now  make  oath  was 
a  villanous  intent.  That  was  the  other  fact  feeding  a 
devilish  jealousy. 
VOL  n.  —  12 


i;8  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

They  had  struggled  for  a  while  as  he  travelled  on. 
Jealousy  had  won  the  triumph.  He  was  ready  soon  to 
do  something  so  bold,  so  decisive,  so  desperate  in  behalf 
of  the  Holy  Church,  that  every  bridge  would  be  burned 
behind  him,  and  retreat  to  his  old  position  of  sympathy 
with  the  Reformers  would  be  utterly  impossible.  He  had 
come  back  to  France  determined  to  put  himself  publicly, 
by  some  blazing  act,  where  he  would  be  compelled  to 
remain  a  foe  of  the  Reform,  —  above  all,  a  foe  of  the 
detestable  Vian. 

Oh,  how  Astr£e  pitied  him  !  She  knew  his  heart  so 
well.  He  had  already  told  her  of  this  purpose  ;  she  also 
knew  that  he  loved  the  noble  Louis  de  Berquin,  and  that 
the  story  of  the  silence  of  Francis  I.  while  his  old  friend 
and  tutor  was  roasting  in  flames,  would  well-nigh  break 
Ami's  heart.  She  did  not  know  —  no  human  being  can 
know  —  the  certainty  with  which  jealousy,  while  it  closes 
the  pathways  to  heaven,  can  make  the  tenderest  heart  a 
thing  of  iron. 

William  Bud£  saw  it  all  in  Ami's  transparent  glances. 
He  arose  and  said,  — 

•  \  knight  trained  by  Nouvisset  cares  not  to  hear  the 
truth." 

It  stung  Ami.  Vian,  Nouvisset,  Francis,  Hen  juin.  Astree, 
—  the  names  swept  through  his  maddened  brain  as  he 
touched  his  jewelled  dagger,  and  found  the  soft,  loving 
hand  of  that  darling  girl  upon  it. 

"  Never !  never ! "  she  said,  with  a  delicate  omnipo- 
tence, before  which  Ami  faltered.  "  Never  !  Master  Bud£, 
forgive  him  !  My  Bayard  and  my  adored  one  is  still  a 
scholar." 

The  humbled  young  knight  begged  for  pardon  and  for 
the  truth. 

As  well  as  he  might  after  such  an  experience,  did  Bud£ 
tell  him  of  the  death  of  Berquin.  Every  fire  died  out  of 
Ami's  eye,  and  the  dew-fall  of  grief  was  on  his  cheeks. 


AMI  AND    THE  DEATH  OF  BERQUIN.        1/9 

until  a  thought  of  sympathy  with  Reformers,  the  convic- 
tion that  it  might  lead  to  the  company  of  Vian,  and 
the  furious  jealousy  of  his  untamed  heart  blazed  there 
again,  and  licked  up  every  tear-drop.  Even  AstreVs  love 
trembled  with  fe'ar. 

"  Berquin  was  unduly  familiar  with  the  men  who  com- 
mitted the  outrage  with  the  images." 

"  Do  you  know  their  names  ?  The  chancellor  does 
not;  and  even  the  inquisitors  could  not  find  them  out," 
Bud£  calmly  asserted.  "  Besides,"  continued  he,  "there 
was  not  a  particle  of  evidence  that  your  old  tutor  was 
aware  of  the  event  until  the  next  day." 

"Your  old  tutor!" — that  phrase  recalled  some  pa- 
thetic memories  which  sobbed  in  Ami's  heart. 

"  You  will  vouchsafe  me  the  whole  story,  Master,"  said 
Ami,  somewhat  less  excitedly. 

"  Only  four  months  after  your  departure,  —  Master 
Berquin  kept  you  in  his  prayers,  Ami,  —  he  was  arrested  ; 
and  the  speech  which  I  gave  you  "  —  Astree  at  this  in- 
stant reached  down,  and  with  the  hand  which  had  re- 
leased the  dagger,  picked  up  the  crumpled  manuscript 
and  placed  it  in  Ami's  trembling  hand,  —  "  that  speech 
was  scarce  uttered  when  Berquin  cried  out,  '  I  appeal  to 
the  king  ! '  " 

Bude"  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  and  then  he  solemnly 
added  :  "  I  know  this  is  the  king's  palace  ;  "  then  stand- 
ing up,  he  said,  "  But  greater  crimes  have  been  done 
here  than  my  telling  the  disciple  of  Berquin  how  this 
scholar  died." 

"You  can  tell  me  all ;  but  I  will  honor  my  king,"  was 
Ami's  remark. 

"The  King  of  kings  and  the  Lord  of  lords?"  inquired 
Bude,  with  sincere  eloquence. 

Astree  moved  nearer  to  Ami,  and  put  her  white  hand 
upon  his  shoulder. 

The  knight  said  nothing  except  this  :  "  Proceed  !  the 


1 80  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

ways  of  God  are  all  cross-ways ;  the  paths  to  heaven  are 
tangled." 

"  I  have  already  said  it,  Ami  !  We  might  have  saved 
him.  The  gracious  Queen  Marguerite  will  tell  you  that  I 
begged  Berquin,-  saying  to  him:  'Acquiesce;  we  can 
save  you  later  on,  before  the  day  of  punishment.  A  sec- 
ond sentence  is  ready  and  pronounces  death.  All  that 
this  sentence  asks  is  a  plea  for  pardon.  Do  we  not  all 
need  pardon  ?  '  I  said.  '  Acquiesce  ! ' ' 

Ami,  who  had  been  bracing  himself  with  reflection  on 
Vian,  and  with  thinking  how  Vian  might  have  loved  Ber- 
quin, had  the  English  monk  been  in  France,  anxious  to 
find  a  curse  for  a  Reformer,  inquiringly  said,  "  And  he 
was  still  boastful  of  his  heresy?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Bud£  ;  "  he  was  only  a  knightly 
lover  of  truth.  So  knightly  was  he  that  at  the  last  the 
good  Queen  of  Navarre  wrote  words  like  these  to  the 
sovereign :  '  I  for  the  last  time  make  you  a  very  humble 
request :  it  is  that  you  will  be  pleased  to  have  pity  upon 
poor  Berquin,  whom  I  know  to  be  suffering  for  nothing 
but  loving  the  word  of  God  and  obeying  yours.  You  will 
be  pleased,  Monseigneur,  so  to  act  that  it  be  not  said  that 
separation  has  made  you  forget  your  most  humble  and 
most  obedient  subject  and  sister,  Marguerite.'  " 

••  What  was  the  answer?  "  inquired  the  agitated  knight. 

"  The  king  made  no  reply.  I  have  kept  this  copy  of  a 
letter  from  Erasmus  to  his  friend,  and  brought  it  to  you." 

William  Bude"  then  handed  the  crushed  copy  of  the 
speech  and  letter  to  Ami ;  and  he  began  to  read.  As- 
tr£e  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

The  eyes  of  the  three  fell  upon  this  passage  in  which 
the  Dutch  scholar  repeats  what  an  eyewitness  had  told 
him  :  — 

"  Not  a  symptom  of  agitation  appeared  either  in  his  face  or 
the  attitude  of  his  body;  he  had  the  bearing  of  a  man  who  is 
meditating  in  his  cabinet  on  the  subject  of  his  studies  or  in 


AMI  AND    THE  DEATH  OF  BERQU1N.        iSl 

a  temple  on  the  affairs  of  Heaven.  Even  when  the  execu- 
tioner in  a  rough  voice  proclaimed  his  crime  and  its  penalty, 
the  constant  serenity  of  his  features  was  not  at  all  altered. 
When  the  order  was  given  him  to  dismount  from  the  tumbril, 
he  obeyed  cheerfully  without  hesitating ;  nevertheless  he  had 
not  about  him  any  of  that  audacity,  that  arrogance,  which  in 
the  case  of  malefactors  is  sometimes  bred  of  their  natural 
savagery ;  everything  about  him  bore  evidence  to  the  tran- 
quillity of  a  good  conscience.  Before  he  died  he  made  a 
speech  to  the  people ;  but  none  could  hear  him,  so  great  was 
the  noise  which  the  soldiers  made,  according,  it  is  said,  to  the 
orders  they  had  received.  When  a  cord  which  bound  him  to 
the  post  suffocated  his  voice,  not  a  soul  in  the  crowd  ejacu- 
lated the  name  of  Jesus,  whom  it  is  customary  to  invoke  even 
in  favor  of  parricides  and  the  sacreligious,  to  such  extent 
was  the  multitude  excited  against  him  by  those  folks  who  are 
to  be  found  everywhere,  and  who  can  do  anything  with  the 
feelings  of  the  simple  and  ignorant." 

Ami  cried  out  with  pain.  Not  a  syllable  escaped  his 
lips  as  he  bolted  past  the  knot  of  courtiers  gathered  with- 
out, deaf  to  the  cries  of  Astree,  who  followed  him  with 
her  tearful  pleadings. 


CHAITKk    XXI. 

M     (>!      Hi:  MCRCH. 

Which  way  I  fly  is  hell !  myself  am  hell.  —  MILTON. 

IN  a  short  time  even  .\>tree  had  been  forsaken  by  the 
tempest-tossed  Ami.  He  was  soon  alone  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  principal  fortress  of  St.  (icrmain-en- 
Laye,  whither  he  had  fled  in  anguish  of  soul. 

"  Solitude  !  "  said  he,  in  his  agony  ;  and  he  thought  of 
the  crowns  which  had  been  won  and  lost,  the  kingdoms 
saved  and  doomed,  the  revelations  vouchsafed  and  with- 
held, when  souls  like  his  had  found  solitude.  "  Here," 
mused  he,  —  "here  is  no  mountain  ;  and  yet  Sinai  with 
cloud  and  flame  is  here.  Here  is  no  desert ;  and  yet  a 
John  the  Baptist  may  listen  even  here  and  detect  the 
words,  '  Repent !  Repent  ! '  on  this  damp  air.  Here  is 
no  Florence,  with  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  in  the  street ; 
but  Dante's  *  Inferno  '  or  '  Paradise  '  is  mine  in  this  very 
cell.  Here  is  no  temple  summit ;  but  here  demons  crowd 
to  say, '  All  these  kingdoms  are  thine  ;  fall  down  and  wor- 
ship me  ! '  " 

The  piteous  wail  of  Louis  de  Berquin  came  in  from 
between  the  stones  :  so,  also,  did  the  compliments  of 
Chevalier  Bayard,  sans  peur,  sans  reproche !  The 
struggling  purity  of  a  personal  faith  came  in  the  scorched 
faces  of  countless  martyrs,  and  looked  at  him  from  the 
wall ;  so  also  did  the  affectionate  wickedness  of  Francis  I. 


ANOTHER  SERVANT  OF  THE  HOLY  CHURCH.    183 

The  Waldensian  conscience,  pure  as  a  mountain  snow- 
drift, bright  as  an  Alpine  dawn,  hovered  over  his  bursting 
temples ;  so  also  did  the  hands  of  cardinals  and  popes, 
and  the  traditions  of  an  immutable  institution.  He  was 
a  passive,  torn  battle-ground. 

The  grandeur  of  the  Holy  Church,  his  obligations  to 
the  king,  the  fear  of  eternal  torments,  —  all  were  now 
being  driven  back.  The  face  of  Louis  de  Berquin  was 
scattering  them  as  the  dawn  routs  the  night.  It  was  Saul 
of  Tarsus  again,  a  moment  after  holding  the  clothes  of 
those  who  stoned  the  martyr  Stephen.  The  bloody  face 
on  whose  wounds  shone  a  light  of  transfiguration,  was 
breaking  his  heart.  Would  that  power  win  the  victory? 

At  the  instant  when  the  tearful  eyes  again  looked 
toward  the  eternal  daytime,  the  foe  which  had  grown 
despotic  within  his  soul,  and  which  had  torn  him  and 
hurled  him  about  so  often,  lifted  its  brutal  throne  upon 
the  scene  of  the  conflict.  As  into  Saul,  the  hesitating 
persecutor,  swept  the  pride  of  a  Pharisee  which  turned 
him  from  sympathy  to  hate,  so  out  of  the  lair  in  Ami,  the 
questioning  zealot,  sprang  with  powerful  ferocity  the  in- 
fernal passion  of  jealousy,  turning  him  from  pity  to  cruelty. 
He  had  just  thought  of  Astree,  then  of  Vian,  then  of 
the  career  which  should  slake  this  burning  hate.  Jealousy 
had  worked  its  damnation  upon  his  jealous  soul.  He 
turned  his  back  swiftly  upon  the  morning ;  and,  like 
Saul,  he  looked  for  the  road  to  Damascus. 

Astree  had  found  him ;  and  she  felt  a  stern  purpose  in 
his  cold  hand  as  she  led  him  up  the  stone  stairs. 

He  was  immovable  and  unlovely,  yet  she  loved  him. 

"  I  will  hear  of  affairs  of  State  when  I  return,  —  a  knight 
blessed  by  the  Holy  Father  and  honored  in  this  realm," 
he  remarked  to  one  of  the  ministers  of  Francis  I. 

The  minister  was  more  than  delighted  to  learn  that 
Ami  had  accepted  so  honorable  a  place  among  the 


1 84  MONK  AND  K NIG  HI'. 

twenty  young  knights,  and  who  supposed  he  would  like 
to  hear  of  the  treaties  which  had  just  been  signed,  and 
the  gathering  strength  of  the  throne  to  deal  with  the 
Reformation. 

No  one  cared  to  tell  him  that  Andrea  Doria  had  gone 
over  to  Charles  V.  Every  one  near  Ami  knew  how  often 
he  had  regretted  the  treatment  which  he  foresaw  would 
certainly  make  that  chivalrous  admiral  an  implacable 
enemy  of  Francis  I. 

Ami  was  busy  with  his  own  soul.  "  I  go  to  make  for 
myself  a  firm  faith,"  cried  he,  as  Astre'e  clung  to  him  in 
the  pitiful  moonlight. 

"  Faith  is  not  made  by  rash,  passionate  hate,"  she 
ventured  to  say,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  her  heart  a  living 
pain. 

"  I  have  no  hold  upon  anything  ;  I  must  grasp  some- 
thing in  a  desperate  act.  My  soul  has  been  mystified. 
I  call  myself  a  heretic,  and  from  the  deeps  comes  the 
word  '  heretic.'  I  call  myself  a  Catholic  of  Rome,  and 
the  echo  from  my  vacant  soul  is  '  Rome.'  I  never  will 
be  of  the  party  of  Reform.  The  accursed  Vian  has  doubt- 
less gone  there,  and  is  now  as  foul  as  he  was  false.  I 
am  his  undying  enemy,  —  you  hear?  Of  his  cause  I  will 
be  an  unrelenting  persecutor." 

"  Oh,  Ami,  you  do  not  look  so  tender  and  loving  as  is 
your  wont,  when  you  speak  so  !  " 

"  Perhaps  not ;  it  is  because  I  loved  you  that  I 
hated  him." 

"  What  if  he  has  not  gone  over  to  the  Reformers?  "  she 
inquired,  as  he  coldly  moved  aside.  "  Ami,  my  sweet 
knight,  do  not  leave  me.  Let  me  kiss  your  lips,  which 
seem  so  stiff  and  dry  when  you  curse  the  monk." 

It  was  an  unsatisfactory  kiss  to  both  of  them.  Jeal- 
ousy had  even  scorched  Astree.  She  knew  it  was  burn- 
ing Ami  up.  She  must  protest  no  more,  for  it  seemed 
only  to  fan  the  flame. 


ANOTHER  SERVANT  OF  THE  HOLY  CHURCH.     185 

"  I  said  I  would  be  an  unrelenting  persecutor,  if  need 
be,  to  kill  that  wretch  who  first  —  " 

"  I  can  never  love  a  persecutor,  Ami  !  You  have 
taught  me  to  love  Him  who  said,  '  Put  up  thy  sword  into 
the  sheath,'  "  she  answered,  with  ejaculations  of  grief. 

"  I  care  not  for  —  He  was  about  to  blaspheme, 
when,  the  banquet  having  been  made  ready,  he  was  com- 
manded to  present  himself  before  the  king,  and  there 
he  was  invited  to  be  seated  by  the  side  of  the  Pope's 
messenger. 

On  the  morrow  every  detail  of  the  march  was  ex- 
plained, every  plan  of  extermination  made  clear.  Ami 
saw  a  great  future  in  sight,  —  a  future  which  had  for 
him  the  career  of  a  Captain  of  the  Papal  Guard.  If  this 
expedition  should  be  successful,  the  position  was  his. 
Never  did  that  ring  which  was  given  him  by  Leo  X.  at 
Bologna,  long  years  ago,  sparkle  with  such  hope. 

The  next  morning  Astree  had  been  alone  in  her  sor- 
row, save  for  the  faithful  priest,  who  was  trying  in  vain 
to  persuade  her  that  Ami  would  return  from  that  expe- 
dition against  the  Waldensians  with  a  creed  and  with 
honor. 

"And  he  will  love  me  then,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

TO  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

\Ve  know  not  how  to  choose.     We  cannot  separate 
Our  longing  and  our  hate. 

LEWIS  MORRIS. 

FROM  France  to  England  hurried  the  nuncio  of 
Clement  VII.  Under  the  magnificent  elms,  near 
the  palace  of  Henry  VIII..  Yian  stood  ready  for  his 
journey.  There  he  ha*  .veil  "  to  his  king. 

The  papal  nuncio  had  supplied  him  with  sufficient 
information  concerning  the  desires  of  the  Pope  himself. 
His  ardent  admiration  for  the  abilities  of  Wolsey's  chosen 
messenger  had  constantly  increased,  as  the  latter  spoke 
of  the  task  before  him,  and  opened  unto  this  new  agent 
of  his  Holiness  the  plans  which  had  been  matured  at 
Hampton  Court  and  Whitehall. 

"Your  Eminence  has  loaned  to  the  service  of  the 
Church,  at  this  juncture,  a  remarkably  powerful  man. 
His  evident  wisdom,  strategy,  and  comprehensive  under- 
standing of  what  must  be  done  to  rid  those  valleys  of 
heresy  appear  to  surpass  even  his  scholarship,"  remarked 
the  nuncio  to  Wolsey,  from  whose  breast  hope  had  not 
yet  quite  gone. 

"  He  is  both  a  learned  and  a  shrewd  man.  I  hope  he 
may  prove  entirely  successful,"  replied  the  cardinal,  as 
he  guardedly  answered  the  Italian  monk,  careful  to  say 
nothing  as  to  the  state  of  Vian's  faith  in  the  Church. 


TO    THE  MOUNTAINS.  1 87 

"  I  shall  accompany  him  to  Calais ;  and  one  of  the 
abbots  of  San  Michele,  intelligent  of  the  plans  of  the 
trusted  courtiers  of  the  Pope,  will  guide  him  thence  by  a 
sure  and  short  route  to  Susa,  perhaps  to  the  monastery 
beyond.  Blessings  upon  you,  my  Lord  Cardinal !  With 
this  farewell,  and  by  your  leave,  I  now  gratefully  with- 
draw from  your  presence.  I  shall  be  still  more  grateful 
to  do  you  service  at  Rome." 

At  Rome  !  It  was  a  skilful  piece  of  flattery  to  the 
cardinal's  ambition.  The  tiara  of  the  Pope  again  came 
into  the  imagination  of  the  butcher's  son,  —  Thomas, 
Lord  Wolsey.  He  seemed  already  within  reach  of  the 
keys  of  Saint  Peter.  Desperate  circumstances  with 
Henry  VIII.  had  made  his  hallucinations  vivid. 

The  route  to  Dover,  even  to  Calais,  furnished  no 
incident.  Vian  and  the  Italian  were  busy  making 
maps  which  to-day  seem  only  brilliant  blunders.  The 
state  of  the  Church  was  spoken  of,  and  the  pardonable 
ambition  of  Wolsey  was  even  applauded  by  the  nuncio. 
Wily  as  the  training  of  the  Pope  could  make  him,  cau- 
tious as  the  crumbling  condition  of  affairs  would  demand, 
cheerful  because  often  Vian  seemed  somewhat  morose 
and  sad,  the  nuncio  kept  before  the  Englishman  a  vision 
of  the  cardinal  at  length  to  be  created  pope,  and  of 
Vian  himself  as  his  appointed  vicegerent. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  the  thoughtful  Vian  doubt  that 
the  success  of  this  expedition  might  lift  him  into  greater 
power  in  the  Church.  He  knew  not  whether  he  de- 
sired it ;  however,  he  did  not  doubt  his  fitness,  as  he 
thought  of  others  in  power.  No  difficulty  of  belief,  no 
carelessness  of  ceremonials,  no  utterance  of  his  which 
could  be  rescued  from  a  conversation  with  Erasmus, 
More,  or  Giovanni  would  be  deemed  of  sufficient  impor- 
tance to  keep  him  from  an  episcopate,  for  example,  if 
Wolsey  were  in  the  chair  at  Rome,  and  his  own  service 
were  needed. 


1 88  J/aVA'  AND  KXIGHT. 

At  Calais  the  nuncio,  who  had  already  once  or  twice 
imbibed  too  freely  of  English  wines,  refreshed  himself 
with  a  bottle  of  such  very  powerful  port  as  to  become 
quite  talkative  upon  subjects  hitherto  held  in  abeyance. 

"  Some  of  the  bishops  are  not  sure  of  their  faith,"  said 
Vian. 

"  Aha  !  "  laughed  the  nuncio,  "  the  cardinals  most 
disturb  his  Holiness.  Bembo,  —  ha,  ha  !  —  oh,  Bembo 
would  be  the  sort  of  pope  to  stamp  out  heresy.  He 
refuses  to  read  Saint  Paul's  epistles,  lest  his  literary  style 
should  suffer.  But  he  is  very  handsome.  He  will  be 
more  than  cardinal  some  day.  Even  his  mistress  and 
children  say  it." 

"  How  many  children  has  this  coming  Prince  of  the 
Holy  Church?"  inquired  Vian,  his  humor  giving  way 
before  a  sickened  heart  which  pondered  on  the  path 
before  him. 

••  I  know  not,  ha,  ha  !  "  replied  the  intoxicated  an- 
nalist, as  he  proceeded  to  paint,  as  best  he  could  in  his 
hapless  condition,  the  life  of  this  distinguished  religionist 
at  Padua. 

Vian  was  conscious  of  the  influence  of  the  Renais- 
sance upon  himself.  He  had,  as  we  have  seen,  con- 
templated its  astonishing  power  in  1  Colet,  and 
More.  He  had  beheld  Giovanni's  good-humor  and 
Richard  Beere's  horror  at  its  steady  advance  in  (ilaston- 
bury.  Never,  however,  at  that  time  had  he  considered 
it  possible  that  even  the  Renaissance  could  produce 
such  a  pagan  as  was  Bembo,  secretary  of  the  Pope  Leo  X. 
Indeed,  history  has  kept  this  name  as  perhaps  the  most 
illustrious  representative  of  that  class  of  men  whose  in- 
tellectual powers  assume  a  weird  and  unnatural  grandeur, 
partially  because  of  the  absence  of  conscience,  which 
leaves  them  at  once  isolated  and  ghost-like.  Bembo 
was  the  fittest  type  of  the  humanity  whirh  held  the  reins 
of  the  papal  court,  whose  sen-ant  at  that  hour  was  Vian. 


TO    THE  MOUNTAINS.  189 

"  I  can  have  all  the  freedom  I  want  in  the  Holy 
Church,"  thought  he,  as  he  turned  his  fine  face  toward 
Padua,  pushed  his  long  locks  back  from  his  broad  fore- 
head, and  remembered  that  Bembo's  house  was  said 
to  be  one  elaborate  welcome  to  artists  and  scholars. 
Shelves  of  rare  books  enclosed  the  spacious  rooms,  in 
which  were  tables  covered  with  coins  and  antiquities,  or 
littered  over  with  manuscripts  —  the  oldest  extant  —  of 
Virgil  and  Terence,  Petrarch's  poems,  and  the  lives  of 
Provincial  Bards. 

"  I  heard  Luigi  Cornaro  read  to  Bembo  his  essay 
'  Delia  Vita  Lobria,'  and  at  his  villa  Lamprido  repeated 
his  lines.  Aha  !  his  wine  —  Bembo's  wine  —  was  not 
equal  to  that  of  Glastonbury,"  languidly  mused  the 
awakening  nuncio ;  and  he  added,  "  A  great  pope  would 
Bembo  make,  —  a  great  pope." 

"  I  heard  Erasmus  call  Bembo  '  that  ape  of  Cicero,'  " 
remarked  Vian.  "  But  it  is  impossible  to  get  on  in  the 
Church  without  bishops  and  cardinals  and  a  papal 
nuncio." 

"  Entirely  so,"  said  the  Italian.  "  They  would  all  be 
better  Churchmen  if  they  had  more  of  the  wine  which 
strengthens  your  abbot  at  Glastonbury.  Books  and 
scholars  make  heresy;  wine  and  swords  make  good 
papists." 

In  due  course,  on  that  lustrous  morning  in  1529,  two 
tired  travellers  rode  a  couple  of  jaded  horses  into  the 
town  of  Susa.  One  of  them  was  an  ignorant  Piedmon- 
tese  monk,  who  had  outraged  the  other's  conscience  and 
intelligence  at  his  cursing  and  bigotry,  while  he  had 
chattered  concerning  the  Waldensians ;  the  other  was 
Vian,  who  had  come  thither  to  perfect  a  scheme  which 
would  scarcely  stop  short  of  annihilating  the  more  in- 
fluential of  a  kind  of  human  beings  whom  he  now  be- 
lieved to  be  the  only  decent  people  in  these  regions, 


IQO  J/tU'A'  AND  KMGHT. 

These  two  had  quarrelled  all  the  way  from  Calais  to 
Susa;  and  when  the  road  from  Mont  Genevre  came 
visibly  near  to  that  from  Mont  Cenis  and  the  marshy 
valley  of  Susa  appeared,  M>  near  was  the  place  of  parting 
that  both  men  were  relieved. 

"  His  Holiness  never  had  a  greater  fool  on  his  errands," 
said  this  monk  Torraneo  to  his  own  soul,  as  they  pressed 
on  through  Susa  and  toward  Monte  Pirchinano  and  San 
Michele,  to  which  Vian  had  been  directed  at  the  church 
in  Susa. 

The  Englishman  had  for  a  time  tried  to  keep  up  the 
dignity  of  his  position.  But  Vian  had  now  ceased  to 
quote  Virgil  and  Hesiod  to  the  ecclesiastical  barbarian, 
and  was  intent  on  observing  San  Ambrogio,  when  he 
bethought  himself  that  something  ought  to  be  done  to 
make  this  monk  more  friendly  to  him. 

"  Everything,"  the  nuncio  had  said  to  Vian,  "  depends 
on  your  appearance  and  bearing  at  San  Mi.  hele.  Tu 
that  sanctuary  his  Holiness  will  ask  the  French  King  to 
send  his  knights  from  Paris.  They  will  follow  no  leader 
who  has  not  been  well  received  at  the  Benedictine  Mon- 
astery. You,  as  a  Benedictine  in  the  clothes  of  a  gentle- 
man, are  there  to  consolidate  France,  England,  and 
Italy  against  the  heretics." 

Vian  was  thoughtful  and  uneasy ;  the  monk  was  dis- 
dainful. 

"  You  do  not  know  much  about  us,"  said  the  monk, 
testily. 

"  Do  you  revere  the  noble  history  of  yonder  sanctu- 
ary?" asked  Vian,  preparing  to  astonish  him  into  ad- 
miration of  that  kind  of  intelligence  which  alone  he  had 
hope  would  be  appreciated. 

"  It  is  better  than  the  abbeys  of  England.  —  all  of 
them.  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  It  is  a  great  and  inspiring  story  which  clings  to  it," 
replied  the  Englishman. 


TO    THE  MOUNTAINS.  igi 

The  monk  was  all  attention.  They  were  now  ascend- 
ing ;  and  the  grandeur  of  the  building,  the  sublimity  of 
its  position,  loosed  the  tongue  of  Vian. 
"  "That  ancient  wall  yonder,  was  the  effort  of  the 
Lombard  King  to  save  his  possessions  from  Charle- 
magne. Desiderius  was  his  name,"  ventured  Vian,  with 
dogmatism. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  ago  !  I  did  n't  know  either  of 
them.  The  abbot  knew  Charle — whatever  his  name 
could  be,"  was  the  monk's  heavy  reply. 

Vian  felt  that  he  was  gaining  ground  ;  but  that,  looked 
at  from  an  historical  point  of  view,  the  ground  was  not 
very  valuable. 

"Ah,  Brother,"  said  Vian,  thinking  how  Giovanni 
would  enjoy  this  innocent  ignorance,  "  then  you  did  not 
know  Hugh  de  Montboissier,  who  did  the  offence  for 
whose  expiation  the  monastery  was  founded?" 

"  It  was  a  long  time  ago  ;  but  I  have  heard  the  abbot 
tell  of  it,  —  how  he  came  from  Rome  and  saw  one  night 
the  top  of  Monte  Pirchiriano  covered  with  fire —  " 

"No,"  said  Vian;  "that  was  the  recluse  of  Monte 
Caprasio,  Giovanni  Vincenzo,  who  saw  the  summit 
wrapped  in  flames.  You  did  not  know  him  ? " 

"  Why,  no  !  The  abbot  told  me  I  needed  not  to  know 
even  the  name,  if  only  I  would  return  the  beds  to  the 
chamberlain  when  the  guests  had  gone.  I  have  done 
all  these  things ;  and,"  he  added  meditatively,  "  I  can- 
not give  you  an  order  for  more  than  two  days'  board. 
The  ordinance  says  that  is  all." 

"  Fifteen  days  to  persons  beyond  suspicion,"  said 
Vian,  who  remembered  something  of  the  reform  of  San 
Michele  in  1478,  who  also  now  saw  that  the  monk  sus- 
pected him.  "Giovanni  Vincenzo  returned  to  his  lonely 
Caprasio,"  added  Vian,  gazing  from  San  Pietro,  which 
they  had  just  reached,  —  an  eminence  more  than  one 
thousand  feet  above  San  Ambrogio. 


I Q2  J/6>A'A'  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  No ;  the  prior  never  lets  any  monk  wear  his  hair 
longer  than  two  fingers  broad,"  answered  the  monk, 
careless  that  Vincenzo  died  before  the  year  1000,  and 
careful  to  notice  the  flowing  beauty  of  Yi  m's  hair. 

\Yhen  the  level  height  of  San  Pietro  had  been  reached, 
our  travellers  were  so  weary  that  they  stopped  upon  its 
soft  green  grass  to  rest.  The  white  glaciers  of  Mont 
Cenis  made  the  eye  ache  with  their  piercing  brilliancy  : 
and  it  was  a  joy  to  look  upon  the  valley  of  the  Dora  or 
the  plains  of  Turin,  in  which  sparkled  the  two  lakes  of 
Avigliana. 

The  monk,  however,  was  still  anxious  for  more  infor- 
mation with  which  to  dovetail  his  own  slight  intelligence  ; 
and  Vian  and  he  were  soon  before  the  ancient  ruin  which 
lay  on  their  right,  about  which  neither  could  say  a  truth- 
ful word.  •  As  they  ascended  the  steps,  however,  the 
monk  heard  a  tale  which  entirely  convinced  him  that 
his  companion  was  all  that  could  be  desired  as  an  exter- 
minator of  heretics ;  and  by  the  time  the  old  Lombard 
doorway  was  reached,  Torraneo's  pride  in  things  eccle- 
siastical burst  forth  freely.  Seeing  the  lord  abbot  him- 
self, he  cried  out,  — 

"  I  bring,  my  Lord  —  " 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  said  the  imperious  abbot.  "  Great  is 
the  honor  which  we  mean  to  do  this  the  accredited 
agent  of  his  Holiness  and  Cardinal  Wolsey ;  but  you 
do  not  bring  your  Lord  here !  Torraneo,  to  the 
lavatory  !  " 

Vian  entered  a  very  elegant  apartment,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  all  ceremony ;  while  the%  monk  who  so  re- 
cently had  been  turned  into  an  admirer  of  the 
Englishman,  worked  aimlessly  in  the  lavatory  at  cleans- 
ing his  face  and  hands,  whije  he  pondered,  as  never 
before,  on  both  the  abomination  of  learning,  and  tne 
facility  with  which  the  abbot  always  made  him  say  what 
he  did  not  mean  to  say. 


TO    THE  MOUNTAINS.  193 

Vian  was  an  honored  guest  at  San  Michele.  He  had 
not  come  to  study  the  abbey  of  La  Chiusa,  or  the  church 
of  St.  Lawrence,  or  the  chapels  of  St.  James  and  St. 
Nicholas,  —  not  even  the  scenery  which  unfolded  its 
magnificence  before  the  beholder  from  that  height.  But 
he  could  not  omit  to  notice  the  votive  pictures  and  an- 
tique frescos.  The  pure  Lombard  architecture  charmed 
him.  The  church,  he  saw,  fastened  itself  into,  and  was 
partially  builded  from  the  living  rock.  From  the  level 
of  the  floor  stretched  an  almost  unequalled  panorama. 
The  valleys  were  green  with  verdure,  through  which 
lucent  streams  went  singing  seaward.  As  he  was  shown 
above  to  the  great  arch  which  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  on  which  corpses  were  placed  in  a  sitting  position, 
which  the  peasants  crowned  with  flowers,  he  could  not 
help  saying, — 

"  This  church  built  into  the  living  rock  is  the  coronation- 
place  of  death.  Corpses  sit  between  fragrant  Nature 
below  and  the  pure  heavens  above." 

He  turned  away  from  the  corpses,  because  he  thought 
they  made  him  heretical.  Vian  was  right :  every  liv- 
ing heresy  has  been  caused  by  the  crowning  of  some 
skeleton. 

The  head  of  the  house  felt  that  he  must  be  at  least 
pleasant  to  Vian. 

"  It  was  entirely  proper  that  the  Pope  should  ask 
Francis  I.  to  rid  the  valley  of  Lucerne  of  that  pestilence. 
Lucerne  is  subject  to  his  crown.  He  is  always  asking 
favors  from  his  Holiness.  Here  is  heresy  in  his  own 
dominion,"  said  the  abbot. 

"  Cardinal  Wolsey  was  also  requested —  " 

"  Yes ;  and  right  well  was  he  asked  to  aid  us  in  keep- 
ing the  Church  supreme.  He  desires  the  papacy?  " 

"  I  never  heard  him  assert  it,"  replied  Vian. 

"  No  ;  't  is  like  him.     Every  abbot  in  Italy  has  knowl- 
edge of  him." 
VOL.  ii.  — 13 


194  Afo.vA'  ,I\D 

"  Have  you  apprehended  any  Walden^ians  who  bore 
letters  to  heretical  persons?"  inquired  Vian. 

"  Look  yonder  !  "  answered  the  abbot,  taking  him  to 
the  window  and  pointing  to  a  flying  vulture  which  had 
just  left  the  noisy  companionship  of  a  whole  brood  in 
the  valley  below.  "  That  bird  is  flying  off  with  the 
fellow's  tongue,  with  which  he  refused  to  worship  at  the 
shrine.  We  caught  him  as  he  came  through  the  valley 
going  to  Susa,  brought  him  hither,  found  a  letter  from 
the  wretch  Martin  Luther  upon  him,  —  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  one  Caspar  Perrin,  —  a  villain  who  has  the 
Waldensians  meet  at  his  house  for  conference.  Into  the 
vault,  without  food,  we  placed  that  varlet,  until  we  de- 
ciphered the  missive.  He  would  not  beg  or  worship,  as 
we  bade  him.  I  commanded  him  to  be  thrown  from 
the  rock;  and  yonder — see  the  vultures  there?  No; 
near  the  tall  pine  !  —  yonder  his  cursed  carcass  lies." 

Vian  trembled,  and  said,  "Shall  I  see  the  letter  of 
Luther?  It  is  important  testimony." 

"  Ah  !  it  proves  these  beasts  to  be  foul  with  their  cor- 
respondence with  the  adulterous  monk  of  Erfurt.  Here 
is  the  letter." 

Vian  read  this  passage,  without  betraying  the  fact  that 
he  was  far  from  being  calm  :  — 

"  To  make  the  religious  houses  really  useful,  they  should 
be  converted  into  schools,  wherein  children  might  be  brought 
up  to  manhood ;  instead  of  which,  they  are  establishments 
where  grown  men  are  reduced  to  second  childhood  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  .  .  .  The  hour  is  arrived,  when  we  must 
trample  under  foot  the  power  of  Satan,  and  contend  against 
the  spirit  of  darkness.  If  our  adversaries  do  not  flee  from 
us,  Christ  will  know  how  to  compel  them.  We  who  put 
our  trust  in  the  Lord  of  life  and  death,  are  lords  both  of  life 
and  of  death." 

He  tried  to  escape  the  noble  influence  of  the  letter 
by  attention  to  every  ceremony,  but  in  vain.  It  was 


TO    THE  MOUNTAINS.  195 

impossible  for  him  to  hear  anything,  as  the  cantor  in- 
toned the  antiphon,  "ad  benedictus  ad  magnificat/'  save 
the  ringing  sentences  of  the  monk  Martin  Luther,  as  they 
repeated  themselves  in  his  soul. 

"I  must  depart  by  sunrise.  Is  the  brother  ready?" 
said  he  to  the  abbot. 

"You  have  chosen  wisely.  Fra  Salmani  is  prepared 
to  go.  I  like  him  not.  He  has  loved  a  Waldensian, 
and  lies  under  the  suspicion  of  having  purloined  a 
manuscript  from  the  treasury  at  Turin." 

Here  was  joy  for  Vian's  tortured  heart.  He  was  to 
meet,  as  his  companion,  a  monk  who  cared  enough  for 
manuscripts  to  have  been  considered  guilty  of  stealing 
one.  Here  was  a  lover  also  !  Vian  concealed  his  satis- 
faction, saying,  — 

"  The  French  knights  must  not  tarry,  even  if  they 
should  come  in  three  days.  Let  them  follow  my  path." 

"  I  shall  bid  them  depart  at  once  for  the  fortress  of 
La  Torre,  unless  a  contrary  command  shall  come  from 
yourself.  Sending  letters  is  a  perilous  business.  Witness 
the  vultures  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

VI AN    AND   SALMAN! . 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep, 
Where  all  that  was  to  be,  in  all  that  was, 
Whirled  for  a  million  aeons  thro*  the  vast 
Waste  dawn  of  multitudinous  eddying  light,  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep, 
Through  all  this  changing  world  of  changeless  law, 
And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening  life, 
And  nine  long  months  of  ante-natal  gloom, 
Thou  comest 

TBNKYSON. 

NEVER  did  a  more  lucent  morning  bathe  San 
Michele  with  its  splendors  than  that  upon  which 
Vian  and  Fra  Salmani  set  out  for  La  Torre.  Never  were 
two  young  men  so  sure  of  a  delightful  acquaintance. 
Wine  and  barley  cakes,  some  salt  meat  and  white  chest- 
nuts, loaded  upon  the  back  of  Salmani,  made  Vian  quite 
contented  to  be  so  far  from  the  toothsome  repasts  of 
Hampton  Court. 

The  route  chosen  carried  them  far  from  the  paths  and 
roadways  which  were  likely  to  be  travelled  by  Waldensians. 

In  the.  glow  of  evening,  the  two  were  approaching 
Fenestrelle.  Twice,  as  they  were  upon  the  summits,  did 
Fra  Salmani  point  out  the  little  village,  with  its  cross, 
which  was  painted  purple  and  crimson  by  the  retreating 
day.  It  had  been  a  day  of  revelation  to  both.  Minds 


VI AN  AND   S  ALMA  NT,  1 97 

accustomed  to  work  out  problems  for  the  most  part  alone 
found  astonishing  vigor  as  together,  with  an  eager  sym- 
pathy, they  attempted  to  solve  their  difficulties.  The 
narrow  defiles  and  almost  inaccessible  heights  appeared 
to  be  easy  of  entrance  or  ascent,  compared  with  the  mys- 
teries of  faith  and  the  barriers  of  dogma  which  confronted 
them. 

"Then  you  are  sure  that  the  monks  of  Turin  do  not 
all  of  them  share  the  ardor  of  your  prior,"  said  Vian. 

"  I  am  certain  that  in  the  whole  monastery  it  was 
impossible  to  find  one  who  knew  this  path  and  at  the 
same  time  believed  the  Waldensians  ought  now  to  be 
put  to  the  sword  ;  otherwise  I  should  not  have  been  chosen 
to  conduct  you.  You  were  supposed  to  be  favorable 
to  burning  them  all  in  a  slow  fire,"  answered  Fra  Salmani. 

'<  I  was  supposed  to  be  a  fiend?  " 

"Are  there  not  such  fiends  in  England?"  asked  the 
Italian  monk. 

"  Cruelties  have  been  practised  to  stifle  the  thought 
of  scholars  and  pious  souls ;  but  /  have  not  practised 
them,"  answered  Vian,  who  did  not  like  to  be  taken  for 
a  torturer. 

"  The  Church  seems  determined  to  burn  the  best  she 
has." 

"  Do  you  think  these  Waldensians  are  good  people  ?  " 
inquired  Wolsey's  messenger. 

"  I  cannot  speak  calmly,"  said  the  priest.  "You  have 
probably  been  informed  that  I  am  under  suspicion.  A 
manuscript  has  disappeared  from  our  treasury  at  Turin. 
I  am  thought  to  love  manuscripts  more  than  the  relics 
of  the  saints  —  " 

"  Pray  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  character  of  the 
Waldensians,  which  I  want  to  know  about  ?  " 

"  In  my  case,"  answered  the  priest,  with  a  blush  on 
his  cheek  and  a  picture  of  Alke  in  his  soul,  "  it  has  much 
to  do  with  —  " 


198  MOW  AND   KMC.IIT. 

"  Well,  well,  I  cannot  understand  this  at  all  !  " 
remarked  Vian,  impatiently. 

Fra   Salmani  >   at   sea.      '•  What   did   you  ask 

me?"  inquired  the  embarrassed  priest. 

••  What  is  the  character —  I  mean,  what  are  the  habits 
of  these  people  ?  " 

••  Ah  !  as  I  was  saying.  I  knew  one  of  them  —  " 

"  Only  one  of  them  :  Then  you  know  nothing  about 
the  subje<  •!.  with  added  impatience. 

"  I  know  one  of  them  —  " 

"  Who  stole  the  manuscript  from  you?  " 

"  No ;  it  was  not  a  robbery  at  all.  She  was  not  a 
thief." 

"She?     Ah!  a  woman,  a    woman,  —  by  the  st 
woman  ;   and  you  tell  me  you  knew  her,  but  that  she  was 
not  a  thi< 

The  priest  was  sorely  tried.  Everything  seemed  en- 
tangled. "  You  are  quicker  than  I  am.  If  you  will  be 
patient  with  me.  I  will  tell  you  about  the  manuscript," 
said  he. 

*  \o,  I  want  to  hear  about  the  woman  who  was  not  a 
thief — no,  about  the  character  of  these  Waldensians," 
said  Vian,  laughingly. 

"Well,  then,  let  me  tell  it  in  my  way." 

"  Proceed." 

"  I  was  about  to  say  that  my  observation  was  not 
large  —  " 

"Confined  to  this  woman?"  asked  Vian,  with  pitiless 
zeal. 

"  My  observation  is  not  large  ;  but  I  believe  the  most 
pure  and  pious  people  I  ever  saw  are  these  Waldensians 
whom  you  are  come  to  slay." 

Vian's  eyes  were  set  upon  the  calm  face  of  the  young 
priest. 

"Will  you  hear  about  the  manuscript  now?"  he  said 
seriously. 


VI AN  AND  SALMANI.  199 

"  With  your  leave,  Brother,"  answered  Vian. 

"  I  am  under  suspicion  at  the  monastery.  If  you  knew 
for  what  crime,  you  would  think,  perhaps,  that  I  am  too 
full  of  charity  to  Waldensians  in  my  words." 

"  Where  is  the  manuscript?"  asked  Vian,  as  he  offered 
the  young  priest  some  wine  and  a  barley  cake. 

"  It  will  appear  later  in  my  story,"  said  the  Italian, 
who  drank  the  wine  and  began  to  eat  the  cake  with 
avidity. 

"  Do   not    let   us   lose    sight    of  —  of  the   woman," 
said  the  Pythagorean  Vian,  who  had  already  explained 
his  philosophical  position  to  the  priest.       "  Woman  - 
that  is,  a  noble  woman  —  is  the  one  fact  which  I  cannot 
fit  into  my  theories." 

"This  woman  —  this  maiden,  I  will  say  in  truth,  was 
no  debased  man's  soul  reborn  into  this  world,  as  your 
philosophy  would  say.  She  never  could  have  been  more 
lovely  as  an  angel  of  heaven,"  said  Salmani,  offended  at 
Pythagoreanism. 

"  And  she  did  not  steal  the  manuscript?  " 

The  priest,  being  now  refreshed,  resolved  to  pay  no 
attention  to  Vian's  humorous  queries.  He  saw  a  serious- 
ness beneath  them  which  he  would  trust ;  and  he  stood 
up,  brushing  the  crumbs  of  cake  from  his  garments,  and 
said.  — 

"  I  only  told  you  that  I  was  under  suspicion  of  having 
loved  —  " 

"  Why,"  cried  out  Vian,  "  that  is  just  what  you  did 
not  tell  me  at  all.  Oh,  yes,  I  see  now ;  you  say  you  were 
under  suspicion  of  having  loved  —  the  manuscript?  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  I  did  love  the  maiden,"  replied  the 
priest,  hesitatingly  but  earnestly. 

"  So  there  was  no  suspicion  at  all  on  your  part ;  and 
the  prior  was  right  about  the  fact  that  you  did  love  the 
maiden.  No  wonder  you  are  under  suspicion,  Fra 
Salmani." 


20O  MOXK  AND  K 

Your  association  with  legal  functionaries   lias  made 
you  —  " 

"  Able  to  convict  a  lover  of  having  stolen  a  manuscript," 
remarked  the  playful  Yian. 

\  o\v    I    will    tell    my   story ;    and    you    will   say   I 
may   overestimate    the    excellence  of  the  WaldenMans. 
Near  the  monastery,  not  many  leagues  from  the  spot 
where  he  was  nearly  killed  years   ago,  lives   the    most 
intelligent   of  the  Waldensians.       His  name  i->    <  . 
Pemn.     He  was  a  printer  in  \ 'eni<  e  :   and  he   hel: 
set  up  the  type  for  that  n   your   pouch. 

He  lost  his  boy  long  ago;  he  was  captured  from  him  by 
the  French  cavalry  and  killed." 

"The  boy  was  killed?"  a  n.     "Salmani,  did 

you  say  the  name  was  Perrin?  It  seems  to  take  hold  of 
some  memory  within  me.  I  know  a  man  by  that  name 
who  desires  my  hurt.  But  Caspar  Perrin's  boy  was 
killed?" 

"  He  was  killed  ;  and  only  a  daughter  was  left  to  him. 
I  told  you  that  this  man  was  a  printer  at  Venice  for 
He  knew  all  the  scholars ;  and  when  he  came  from 
ice  he  brought  many  books  with  him.      He  was  over- 
proud  of  the  girl,  and  taught  her  every  page  of  his  Latin 
and  (ireek  books." 

"  Caspar  Perrin  !  that  is  the  man  to  whom  Luther 
wrote  the  letter  which  I  saw,"  broke  in  Vian. 

"  The  same,  the  same,  I  assure  you.  He  is  the  leader 
of  the  Waldensian  mind  in  this  region.  The  prior  has 
letters  which  William  Farel  and  Ulric  Zwingli  of  Geneva 
have  sent  to  him.  They  have  been  intercepted,  and  they 
show  that  he  is  in  their  secrets.  Farel  and  Zwingli  rely 
on  the  Waldensians  here  to  help  them,  if  the  affair  should 
come  to  war." 

"And  the  maiden  and  the  manuscript?  " 

"Yes,"  resumed  Salmani,  "our  law  provided  that  the 
monastery  should  keep,  if  it  obtained,  the  children  of  the 


VI AN  AND  SALMANI.  2OI 

heretics,  and  educate  them  in  the  Catholic  faith.  I  was 
commanded  to  attire  myself  as  a  Waldensian  youth,  to 
watch  the  girl's  paths,  and  to  engage  her  in  conversation 
until  my  fellows  could  seize  her.  When  I  found  her 
learning,  and  saw  her  beauty,  my  heart  was  gone.  She 
was —  Oh,  she  is  a  lovely  creature." 

"Oh,"  said  Vian,  with  kindled  eye,  "only  a  Pythago- 
rean is  safe  in  this  wicked  world.  The  Devil  can  catch  a 
monk  at  any  time  ;  but  go  on,  go  on  !  Even  a  Pythago- 
rean likes  such  a  tale." 

"  I  tried  the  patience  of  the  prior,  for  I  saw  her  often. 
I  told  him  the  time  to  seize  her  had  not  come.  She  did 
not  think  that  I  belonged  to  the  monastery,  for  she  often 
spoke  of  the  wicked  priests,  and  sang  her  hymns  to  me. 
As  she  grew  older,  she  became  more  scholarly  and  beau- 
tiful. Once  in  a  long  while  I  would  see  her  afar,  and 
steal  near,  when  Gaspar  had  gone,  and  she  would  read 
from  Erasmus  and  Plato.  Oh,  such  a  celestial  maiden  !  " 

"  And  —  "  interrupted  Vian,  who  was  more  excited 
than  Fra  Salmani. 

"  And  at  last  I  .brought  her  a  manuscript.  I  took  it 
from  the  treasury  of  the  monastery.  It  was  not  missed 
until  Christmas  Day.  She  had  kept  it  secretly  for  months. 
It  was  a  manuscript  of  Virgil." 

"  From  the  monastery  of  Turin?  "  cried  Vian.  "  And 
Erasmus?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Fra  Salmani ;  "  she  told  me  of  Eras- 
mus." 

"  This  all  seems  stranger  still,"  mused  Vian.  "  I  have 
heard  Erasmus  say  that  he  was  hoping  to  get  a  manuscript 
of  Virgil  from  Turin.  It  seems  a  dream.  And  —  " 

"  And  I  resolved  to  offer  her  my  own  soul  and  life ; 
but  she  said  she  loved  only  the  Lord.  I  am  sure  she 
did  not  love  me  as  I  did  her." 

"  For,"  added  Vian,  dryly,  "  you  are  sure  you  loved 
her  more  than  you  loved  the  Lord?  " 


202  JAM 'A'  AND  K'XIGIIT. 

"  No  ;  I  have  been  a  true  monk  and  faithful  to  all  vows, 
except  — ' 

"  When  you  stole  the  manuscript  and  loved  her." 

"Al  ;i  she  had   loved   me!     She  was  truthful, 

and  she  did  not  love  i 

A  tear  was  glistening  in  1-V.i  Salmani's  eye,  as  he 
"  I  am  sure  the  French  knights  would  not  kill  a  defence- 
less maiden,  if  they  should  chance   to  attack  Ga 
cottage." 

Vian  was  thinking  sadly  of  this  wreck  of  love,  while 
Fra  Salmani  did  all  he  could  to  make  him  acquainted 
with  the  mountain  passes  and  the  safe  path  to  the  convent 
of  the  R£collets  in  I*i  Torre.  Vian's  interest  was  not 
roused,  however,  until  the  Italian  priest  began  to  describe 
to  him  the  morals  of  this  persecuted  people.  As  the 
earnest  man,  clad  in  garments  which  disguised  the  monk 
and  identified  him  with  these  suffering  mountaineers,  stood 
out  in  the  clear  light  and  told  the  enchanted  Englishman 
of  their  simple  ways,  —  the  virtue,  the  honor,  the  heroism, 
and  righteousness  of  their  hearts  and  cause,  —  it  seemed 
impossible  for  Vian  to  take  another  step  toward  murder- 
ing them. 

"  What  can  I  do,"  said  he,  "  to  make  these  noble 
people  safe  in  the  hands  of  his  Holiness?" 

"  Francis  I.  has  no  nobler  subject  than  Caspar  Per- 
rin  —  " 

Vian  saw  him  stagger. 

"  O  God  !  " 

Fra  Salmani,  pierced  with  a  single  shot,  fell  at  the  feet 
of  the  English  monk,  writhed  in  pain  for  a  brief  moment, 
and,  while  Vian  sought  to  bring  the  wine  to  his  dying 
lips,  in  an  agony  which  made  him  toss  his  body  to  the 
edge,  Salmani  fell  into  the  chasm  below. 

"  The  heretic  is  dead  !  An  arquebusier  for  heretics  !  " 
shouted  a  man  with  an  ugly  face,  who  had  been  posted 
at  the  defile  to  kill  the  Waldensian  Barbe'  who  was  ex- 


VIAN  AND  SALMANL  203 

pected  at  that  moment.  As  he  looked  down  the  chasm, 
he  saw  the  pale  face  of  Fra  Salmani.  He  had  murdered 
a  monk  of  Turin,  instead  !  As  the  Barbe'  by  another  path 
wended  his  way  toward  La  Torre,  the  most  cultivated 
and  honorable  of  unrequited  lovers  breathed  his  last 
amid  the  rocks  and  pines. 

In  a  moment  Vian  saw  that  he  could  not  reach  the 
bruised  body  of  his  new-found  friend.  Flying  from 
before  him  now  was  that  wicked  emissary  of  the  Church, 
who  had  thought  to  kill  an  heretical  Waldensian,  but  had 
killed  only  an  heretical  Catholic. 

•  "  Oh,  the  crime  of  killing  him  for  speaking  words  of 
truth  and  mercy  !  "  thought  the  troubled  agent  of  the 
Pope,  as  he  concealed  himself  between  two  rocks  and 
opened  his  soul  in  simple  prayer. 


CHAPTER    \\IV. 

OLD    EXPERIENCED  MS. 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 

WORDSWORTH. 

VIAN  was  not  a  man  of  deep  religious  nature. 
I  'raver  was  not  as  easy  to  him  as  thought.  The 
revolutions  in  which  his  life  found  its  transformations  were 
all  approached  on  the  intellectual  side.  His  interest  in 
the  Reformation  had  been  wakened  by  the  Renaissance. 
He  sought  an  unfettered  mind  rather  than  a  clear  con- 
science. But  now  he  prayed  to  God,  as  never  before. 

"  How  reasonable  is  prayer  like  this  !  "  Mid  the  ration- 
alistic monk,  as  he  rose  from  his  knees,  and  sought  a 
place  in  which  the  night  might  be  passed.  He  had  no 
thought  of  going  to  Fenestrelle,  at  least  at  present.  He 
would  rather  die  in  that  melancholy  place.  In  the 
moonlit  night  he  rose  and  peered  over  the  rock  into 
the  white  face  of  Fra  Salmani  far  below  him,  and  came 
back  to  wait  until  dawn,  with  bitterest  curses  on  his  lips. 

"  The  Devil  is  tempting  thee,  Vian  ! "  said  his  ambi- 
tion and  his  regard  for  Wolsey. 

If  that  were  true,  before  two  days  of  wandering 
amid  the  rocks  and  over  the  barriers  had  gone,  Vian 
had  in  some  measure  vanquished  the  Devil,  and  regained 
his  loyalty  to  the  cause  which  he  represented.  Fortune 


OLD  EXPERIENCES  IN  NEW  FORMS.         205 

favored  him,  when  he  resolved  to  be  true  to  the  cardi- 
nal, and  when  he  reflected  that  he  could  not  go  back  to 
England  in  shame.  He  found  food,  whenever  he  ac- 
cepted a  mission  which  he  did  not  love ;  otherwise  he 
was  hungry  and  in  peril. 

Oh,  Vian,  on  the  night  of  the  sixth  day  thou  art  ready 
even  to  persecute  !  The  flesh  is  weak. 

Through  the  early  hours  of  the  next  day  Vian  hurried 
at  a  rapid  pace  toward  some  goal,  —  he  knew  not  what. 
At  last  a  glimmer  of  hope  came. 

From  the  priest  whose  body  we  left  at  the  foot  of  the 
wall  over  which  he  had  fallen  into  the  clump  of  pines 
below,  Vian  had  obtained  such  information  of  the 
country  through  which  he  was  now  to  wander  alone, 
as  he  had  unduly  calculated  upon.  For  days  he  had 
been  a  lost  man;  but  now  he  felt  that  at  last  he  had 
come  into  the  presence  of  what  he  recognized.  As  he 
approached  Angrogna,  he  was  at  first  puzzled  at  what  he 
saw ;  then  he  found  his  mind  quieted  by  the  reflection 
that  though  he  had  without  doubt  travelled  in  almost  an 
entire  circuit  around  the  spot  from  which  he  was  to  send 
back  information  to  the  French  cavalry,  and  although 
he  was  not  at  all  sure  of  the  points  of  the  compass,  he 
was  surely  in  sight  of  the  Torrent  of  Angrogna.  From 
one  of  the  heights  which  he  had  just  left,  could  be  ob- 
served the  mountain  stream  watering  a  charming  nest 
of  valleys,  and  running  into  the  Felice.  Surely,  the 
clump  of  buildings  just  above  was  La  Torre  ! 

For  a  moment  he  stood  half  astonished  and  half  as- 
sured by  the  presence  of  two  strong  but  carelessly  built 
forts,  which  were  so  located  at  the  entrance  of  the  passes 
to  Angrogna  as  to  be  worth  to  their  occupants  a  thousand 
troops. 

"This,"  said  he,  as  he  nervously  toiled  along,  —  "this 
is  what  the  priest  called  '  La  Barricade.'  Yonder  is  the 
broad  wall  of  sword-like  flints  which,  he  told  me,  left 


206  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

but    one    gateway    for    ;  And    yonder   I    see  — 

yonder!  it  is  that  break  in  the  mountains  —  the  opening 
for  them.  Through  that  they  can  easily  escape  to  the 
fastnesses." 

He  listened,  as  he  looked  up  where  crag  piled  itself 
upon  crag  to  create  a  perfect  fortification  for  recalcitrant 
WaldenM.ms.  He  heard  nothing  but  some  sweet  human 
sounds  and  the  bleating  of  herds,  and  his  own  soul 
saying,  "  A  grand  race  of  fearless  men  must  feed  on 
all  this  grandeur."  The  thought  seemed  so  near  the 
borders  of  heresy  that  he  tried  to  suppress  it,  but  in 
vain. 

He  stopped  an  instant  beneath  the  mingled  shadows 
of  two  trees,  one  of  which  was  a  twisted  and  ancient 
chestnut  whose  limbs  ran  far  toward  a  branching  walnut 
of  equal  strength  and  antiquity ;  he  paused  to  listen 
again,  — not,  as  he  himself  fancied,  for  a  band  of  Wai 
densians,  but  for  the  human  tones  which  came  out  from 
the  billowing  of  the  noisy  torrent,  like  stars  in  a  stormy 

*jr. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  heard  a  human  tone  that  I 
could  even  listen  to  a  \Valdensian.  Who  knows  but  that 
the  soul  of  some  ancient  Sappho  has  transmigrated  hither, 
and  now  pays  delightful  penalties  in  these  rocky  fast- 
nesses?" said  the  Pythagorean.  "But  I  must  not  phi- 
losophize now  ;  for  I  am  the  chosen  ambassador  and 
agent  of  his  Holiness." 

Vian  straightened  himself  to  his  whole  height,  and  tried 
to  grow  murderous-looking,  as  he  thought  of  his  task,  — 
to  plan  the  utter  destruction  of  the  Waldensian  leaders. 

He  concluded  to  try  the  height  above ;  a  safer  path  for 
him  was  surely  there,  and  he  could  see  more  of  the 
country.  He  toiled  upward,  thinking  of  La  Barricade, 
its  strategic  importance,  the  utter  impossibility  of  a  hun- 
dred French  knights  fighting  successfully  any  kind  of 
heresy  which  might  occupy  it  and  hurl  rocks  from  its 


OLD  EXPERIENCES  IN  NEW  FORMS.        2O? 

heights  upon  its  invaders.  He  also  thought  of  the  deli- 
cious sounds  which  again  reached  his  ear. 

"  It  is  no  time  for  music.  If  Saint  Cecilia  were  here, 
I  could  not  stop.  I  am  the  favorite  messenger  of  Thomas 
Wolsey,  Cardinal ;  and  I  must  see  to  it  that  heresy  is 
extirpated.  Oh,  how  I  wish  these  heretics  did  not  believe 
so  many  things  which  those  Wycliffe  letters  have  taught 
me  to  tolerate  at  Glastonbury  !  This  thought  entangles 
me.  How  quickly  I  would  forget,  if  I -could,  that  really 
the  priest  himself,  Salmani,  and  what  I  have  seen  make 
me  think  that  Louis  XII.  of  France  knew  them  best ! 
He  must  have  been  heretical.  Did  he  not  say  to  his 
advisers,  'By  the  holy  Mother  of  God,  these  heretics 
whom  you  urge  me  to  destroy  are  better  men  than  you, 
or  myself,  or  any  of  my  subjects  '  ?  " 

Soon  the  eye  of  the  messenger  was  following  a  strong 
bouquetin  which  leaped  across  a  chasm  before  him  with 
surprising  agility.  He  had  now  reached  a  height  from 
which  could  be  seen  the  fortress  of  La  Torre,  whose 
dilapidation  and  romance  still  have  their  charm.  The 
priests  had  told  him  how  often  blood  had  flowed  down  the 
sides  of  the  knoll  into  the  stream  below.  The  thought 
came  upon  him  that  perhaps  the  best  of  this  blood  flowed 
from  the  veins  of  men  who  were  guilty  of  simply  asserting 
their  right  to  their  own  thoughts. 

Then  the  monk  in  him  said,  "That  is  heretical.'* 
At  the  next  breath  the  Pythagorean  wondered  whose  soul 
had  been  re- incarnated  in  the  bouquetin,  which  Vian 
immediately  guessed  was  a  cross  between  a  goat  and  a 
deer.  What  a  Pythagorean  problem  was  here  !  Whose 
soul  was  it?  He  must  brush  these  contending  thoughts 
from  his  brain,  even  if  his  heart  were  sick  at  the  prospect 
of  helping  to  butcher  Waldensians. 

Green  spots  surrounded  with  trees  in  richest  foliage 
lay  below  him.  The  glistening  snow  was  a  living  fire  on 
the  mountain-sides  above  him.  Everything  was  sublime 
or  lovely  but  his  own  purpose. 


20g  JSO.VA-  AXD  KNIGHT. 

"  These  Barbetti  —  or  dogs,  as  we  would  rail  them  in 
Hampton  Court  —  do  not  appreciate  the  grandeur  of  light 

" 


and  gloom  in  this  varied  landscape,"  said  he  to 
and  then,  like  a  sweet  dream,  there  floated  to  him.  again 
a  song.     It  was  like  a  bouquet  floating  upon  a  stream,  - 
a  cluster  of  mellow  tones. 

"  No  dog  is  that  !  "  added  the  lover  of  music  ;  and 
looking  into  the  distance  :  "  Ah  !  that  is  the  college  of 
the  Barbetti  yonder;  that  is  the  Satanic  source  of  the 
heresies  of  this  valley  of  Lucerne.  There,  in  that  cottage 
of  Angrogna,  live  these  foul  Waldensian  birds  who  fly  out 
on  this  clear  air  with  the  heretical  notions  which  thn 
trouble  for  the  Church."  He  was  repeating  the  pric-t 
Torraneo's  description,  and  he  himself  instantly  qualified 
it  by  musing  thus:  "Perhaps  that  is  the  Oxford  of  this 
poor  region  without  Oxford's  tyranny.  John  Colet  and 
Erasmus  would  be  more  welcome  by  its  chancellor  than 
yonder  —  "  He  looked  toward  England,  and  farther. 
even  toward  Lutterworth. 

La  Vachera,  from  whose  inaccessible  heights  perse- 
cuted Waldensians  had  never  been  driven,  rose  sublimely 
as  the  lofty  central  point  of  the  summits  guarding  the 
three  valleys,  and  caught  his  eye,  as  he  dreamed  of 
Lutterworth,  Wycliflfe's  letters,  his  childhood's  vision. 

That  dear  vision  had  strengthened  itself  in  his  mind 
as  he  told  it  to  the  enraptured  priest  Salmani.  The  very 
purity  of  the  air,  the  limpid  translucence  of  the  streams, 
the  unaffected  genuineness  of  the  awful  heights,  drove  out 
the  sounds  of  the  bell  which  was  tolling  in  the  convent 
of  Re"  collets,  at  which  he  must  soon  present  himself;  and 
then  he  welcomed  instead  the  vision  of  his  boyhood,  and 
the  softly  penetrative  tones  of  what  now  he  knew  was  the 
voice  of  a  woman. 

That  convent  bell  was  to  sound  again,  as  the  priest 
had  told  him,  when  the  French  knights  were  ready  at 
the  fortress  of  La  Torre  to  sally  forth  to  exterminate 
Waldensians.  He  had  begun  to  hate  its  souu 


OLD  EXPERIENCES  IN  NEW  FORMS.        2OQ 

"  From  San  Giovanni  to  Valaro,  if  necessary,  give  no 
mercy  to  heretics  !  " 

He  read  this  order  again.  So  also  said  the  convent 
bell. 

Vian  tried  to  rid  himself  of  the  vision  of  his  boyhood 
by  repeating  those  bellicose  words.  The  vision  now 
perplexed  him  strangely ;  but  it  remained  as  firm  as 
yonder  Monte  Viso.  It  was  far  more  imperious  than  the 
solid-looking  residence  of  the  Count  of  La  Torre,  which 
he  saw  standing  in  the  Place  de  la  Torre,  far  in  another 
direction.  It  had  ruled  the  fresh  daytime  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  Wolsey,  Pope,  and  Pythagoras. 

He  would  lie  down  to  sleep.  Night  had  been  his 
salvation.  The  Devil  came  to  other  men  when  asleep ; 
he  attacked  Vian's  waking  hours. 

"  And  this  is  the  Devil,"  he  mused,  as  reaching  the 
crag  overlooking  the  valley  he  crawled  upon  the  only 
path  to  a  spot  less  rugged  than  all  the  region  near ;  and 
there  he  tried  to  sleep  himself  into  courage  and  safety. 

The  sun  never  looked  down  upon  a  more  wisely  clad 
sleeper.  What  he  should  wear  that  he  might  not  be 
apprehended,  and  instead  be  successful  in  his  task, — 
this  had  perplexed  Hampton  Court,  Vian,  and  last  of  all, 
the  guiding  monk  whose  death  at  the  foot  of  the  preci- 
pice had  left  him  now  without  any  advice.  He  had 
taken  up  a  gayly  decorated  hat,  feathered,  laced,  and 
jewelled,  and  thrown  it  aside  at  Whitehall.  As  a  monk 
he  had  never  thought  of  making  his  appearance.  He 
had  not  obeyed  the  Saint  Paul's  condemnation  of  1487  ; 
and  his  hair,  which  had  now  grown  so  long  as  to  entirely 
hide  the  tonsure,  did  not  fit  him  to  take  a  place  at  the 
convent  of  Recollets  in  La  Torre,  in  the  habit  there 
used.  Stole,  chimere,  rochette,  cassock,  alb,  cope,  and 
surplice,  —  even  if  he  had  been  bishop  of  London,  these 
would  have  been  rejected.  He  had  chosen  to  appear  at 
Lyons  as  a  legal  functionary ;  but  cap  and  coif,  narrow 
VOL.  ir  — 14 


2io  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

ruff  and  cape,  long  and  ample  sleeves,  linen  girdle  and 
gown,  had  then  been  cast  aside.  The  wide  sleeves  and 
slashed  and  puffed  bonnet,  plumed  and  ornamented, 
which  for  a  day  on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  "  he- 
had  worn,  made  only  a  sickening  memory  as  he  tried  to 
catch  a  brief  deliverance  in  sleep.  Luttenvorth — his 
father  came  upon  his  memory  as  he  lay  there,  rbd  as 
his  father  would  have  been  as  a  country  gentleman.  An 
easy  velvet  cap  was  now  his  pillow  ;  bright  and  ruddy 
hose  half  covered  his  legs,  which  were  constantly  finding 
a  vigorous  thorn-bush  too  near ;  his  laced  sturtops  en- 
closed a  pair  of  weary  feet ;  his  doublet  was  close-fitting, 
made  of  silk  and  velvet,  girdled  about  the  w.iist  with  a 
bright  ceinture  of  satin  and  leather,  and  ornamented 
with  a  few  onyx  stones,  to  which  were  affixed  the  pouch 
presented  to  him  by  the  queen,  and  a  dagger  which 
had  a  jewelled  haft,  and  was  enclosed  in  a  richly 
ornamented  sheath. 

Sleep  brought  to  him  only  a  dream  which  concluded 
in  a  revelation. 

For  a  long  hour  in  that  dream  did  he  wander  over  the 
hills  of  his  childhood.  Lollards  preached  to  him.  His 
father's  name,  hated  at  Glastonbury  and  Rome,  became 
the  synonym  for  honor,  freedom,  and  the  ever-living 
future.  Priests  blasphemed,  raved,  cursed  ;  and  the  holy 
meeting-places  of  his  father's  companions  found  in  him 
an  orator  struggling  to  the  front  in  mobs  of  persecutors, 
eloquent  in  his  championship  of  the  right  of  untram- 
melled thought.  Wycliffe's  letters  were  in  his  hand, 
Wycliffe's  arguments  upon  his  tongue.  The  dreamer  was 
a  fetterless  proclaimer  of  a  great  Reform  which  lighted 
up  the  whole  sky.  Amid  it  all,  the  one  imperial  centre 
of  it  all,  was  his  little  mate.  Again  he  kissed  the  sweet 
lips,  again  she  pushed  back  his  flowing  hair,  again  she 
spoke  to  him,  again  he  saw  her  unrivalled  loveliness. 

The  dream  melted  away. 


OLD  EXPERIENCES  IN  NEW  FORMS.        211 

"There!"  said  the  dream-ruled,  yet  half-awakened 
man,  as  he  looked  over  the  crag  upon  a  graceful  form 
whose  face  he  could  not  see,  "  I  have  left  childhood, 
hers  and  mine,  behind  !  This  is  manhood ;  that  yonder, 
—  that  is  womanhood.  Yes;  but  what—  "  and  then, 
after  a  solemn  pause  in  the  solution  of  his  mental 
problem,  he  whispered,  "  Is  it  she  ?  " 

Dream,  an  earlier  vision,  a  reality,  were  confounding 
him. 

As  the  returning  consciousness  of  Vian  began  to  make 
him  realize  that  he  had  a  dagger  upon  him,  and  that 
he  was  only  a  monk  and  a  Pythagorean  who  had  tried  to 
sleep,  he  saw  it  all,  —  he  thought  he  saw  it  all. 

"  The  Devil  seeks  my  soul.  This  is  a  Satanic  tempta- 
tion. Oh  for  the  flogging-room  of  Glastonbury  !  Oh  for 
the  frown  of  .Cardinal  Wolsey  !  " 

He  was  sure  only  of  this,  —  that  a  form  of  unrivalled 
loveliness  stood  before  him  on  the  pasture  below ;  and 
that  he  had  heard,  perhaps  only  in  his  dream,  some 
sounds  which  seemed  full  of  delicious  wine,  or  tones 
which  had  once  been  heart-beats. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

VISIONS   AND   REALITIES. 

Yet  still  that  life  awakens,  brings  again 

Its  airy  anthems,  resonant  and  long, 
Till  earth  and  sky  transfigured  fill  my  brain 

With  rhythmic  sweeps  of  song. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

WHAT  could  this  strange  yet  enchanting  creature 
be  doing  ?  She  was  trying  her  voice,  —  playing 
with  its  possibilities,  singing  for  the  very  joy  of  singing,  — 
not  as  some  court-born  damsel  in  some  tapestried  room 
in  Windsor  Castle,  but  as  a  child  of  sky  and  mountain, 
flower  and  ice-floe,  in  the  spacious  opening  in  the 
mountain-chain,  where  the  Architect  of  the  universe  had 
taxed  omniscient  energies  to  make  a  perfect  audience- 
room  in  which  that  wonderful  voice  might  utter  itself. 

Did  the  Devil  choose  this  supreme  test  for  the  music- 
loving,  vision-seeing  monk?  He  had  passed  all  other 
such  tests  triumphantly ;  but  now  he  began  to  feel  that 
in  the  vicinity  of  this  matchless  instrument  on  which  this 
careless  creature's  breath  seemed  to  play,  so  great  was 
the  contrast  that  they  had  not  prepared  him  to  meet 
this  crisis  successfully,  —  nay,  they  had  somehow  con- 
spired to  make  this  attraction  resistless  instead.  Vian 
thought  of  the  whining  and  mumbling  which  had  been 


VISIONS  AND  REALITIES.  213 

called  music  in  the  palace  of  the  cardinal  and  at  the 
court  of  the  king,  as  these  notes  burst  forth  from  that 
deep  and  yet  many-toned  organ ;  and  the  tired  head  of 
the  young  monk  fairly  ached  to  lay  itself  upon  the  breast 
which  now  filled  itself  with  the  fragrant  air  and  breathed 
out  roses,  anemones,  violets  of  dulcet  sound. 

He  was,  nevertheless,  half  disgusted  with  the  senti- 
mental instability  which  he  at  that  moment  discovered  in 
himself.  Was  not  this  a  female  ?  He  had  never  felt  in 
that  way  toward  an  actual  living  woman.  He  caught  his 
mind,  as  he  divined  with  conceited  wisdom,  in  the  very 
act  of  falling  in  love.  He  lay  there  reproving  himself, 
chastening  his  mind.  It  was  easier  to  catch  and  chastise 
than  to  hold. 

Where  under  heaven  were  some  of  the  wise  saws  of 
Pythagoras  that  would  annihilate  such  feelings  as  made 
him  forget  the  thorn-bush  which  his  leg  had  again  touched 
vigorously?  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  could  have 
remembered  them  if  only  he  could  have  stood  upon 
his  feet ;  but  somehow  he  did  not  want  to  frighten  this 
innocent  nightingale  away,  for  her  sake.  He  could  not 
rally  to  service  any  of  the  numerous  advices  of  Abbot 
Richard  Beere,  who  once  helped  him  to  get  rid  of  that 
vision. 

He  remembered  that  Giovanni  said  once :  "  The 
Pythagorean  view  of  woman  is  safer  in  the  mind  of  a 
man  who  was  never  born  for  love  than  in  the  heart  of 
Pythagoras  himself,  if  he  is  accessible  to  the  sentimental 
passion." 

It  was  only  a  milestone.  Vian's  soul  was  running 
away  rapidly;  and  he  could  only  observe  swiftly  this 
and  all  other  milestones,  as  he  passed  on. 

One  thing  above  all  others  had  haunted  Vian  with 
possible  peril,  —  the  vision  of  his  childhood.  If  only  he 
could  so  fill  his  soul  with  Pythagorean  philosophy  and  the 
recollection  of  his  vows  as  a  monk  that  this  early  a.nd 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

most  beautiful  vision  might  not  obtrude  itself,  he  could 
probably  succeed  in  vanquishing  the  Devil. 

"  But  why  should  I  fight  anything  which  has  kept  my 
character  stainless?  Only  the  vision  of  my  little  mate, 
—  only  this  has  kept  me  pure,"  thought  he,  truly. 

Vian  was  glad  that  it  must  be  impossible  that  he 
should  meet  her  at  this  critical  moment  in  his  life,  and 
especially  was  he  glad  to  think  that  this  strange  attrac- 
tive appearance  should  be  only  a  poor  peasant  girl  whom 
he  could  never  really  love. 

This  might  be  his  soul's  mate  ? 

"  But  I  have  seen  many  women  at  court  and  on  great 
occasions  like  that  of  the  '  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,'  " 
he  was  compelled  to  remember,  "  and  I  have  then  been 
sure  that  I  should  never  see  her  in  such  circumstances 
as  they  were." 

Uncomfortable  as  was  Vian's  position,  —  the  thorn 
so  close  to  his  leg,  and  the  sharp  stones  penetrating 
his  knees  and  elbows,  —  he  was  now  being  made  more 
uncomfortable  by  the  vision  of  that  never- forgotten  child, 
who  had  grown  with  his  own  growth,  who  lived  in  his 
heart  and  life  as  sweet  in  her  fragrant  influence  as  the 
flower  which  blossomed  under  his  dilating  nostrils,  —  a 
vision  which  had  been  law  and  gospel  to  his  spirit,  and 
which  now  grew  more  and  more  definite  as  he  tried  to 
fight  against  it. 

"  That  vision  of  yours  has  survived  your  reverence  for 
monastic  institutions  !  "  Giovanni  had  said  to  him,  long 
months  since.  "  The  only  thing  which  will  destroy  it  is 
our  philosophy ;  and  you  will  be  a  poor  Pythagorean  when 
you  find  your  little  mate." 

Vian  remembered  that  old  Giovanni  had  made  his 
heart  burn  often  with  the  story  which  he  told  him  of  a 
black-eyed  Italian  girl  whom  he  once  loved,  whose  broken 
heart  had  long  ago  dissolved  into  dust  beneath  the  sunny 
sky  of  Rome.  In  the  tears  which  the  old  monk  would 


VISIONS  AND  REALITIES. 

try  to  hide  as  he  told  that  tale  of  his  own  love,  the  career 
of  a  friar  and  the  philosophy  of  Pythagoras  were  appar- 
ently washed  away  in  the  very  presence  of  Vian. 

"  It  'seems  that  the  Devil  wants  me  to  recollect  all  such 
things  in  this,  my  hour  of  trial,"  whispered  Vian  to  his 
faltering  heart. 

Then  the  home  of  Thomas  More  —  its  companionship, 
its  serene  loveliness,  its  intellectual  atmosphere  —  came 
swinging  by ;  and  he  could  see  himself  and  his  little 
mate  keeping  house  together.  "And  Thomas  More  was 
teaching  his  mate  music?"  thought  he. 

As  that  fascinating  reflection  came  and  went,  Vian 
found  himself  hurled,  as  by  a  tender  but  omnipotent 
energy,  back  to  that  June  day  at  Lutterworth,  when  he 
gathered  flowers  for  his  invisible  and  adored  one,  and 
heard  her  sing.  The  vision  was  penetrated  by  the  mem- 
ory of  certain  fresh,  sweet  tones. 

Abbot  Richard  had  always  said  that  the  Devil  would 
tempt  him  in  this  way.  The  very  crag  seemed  to  sink 
toward  her.  Vian  was  going  down.  He  would  make  one 
desperate  effort  by  repeating  a  prayer. 

"Yet  no  prayer,  no  saints  have  kept  me  pure~  I  must 
not  be  false  to  that  vision  which  has  kept  me ;  but  I  will 
be  a  monk  and  a  Pythagorean." 

The  struggling  man  knew  himself  to  be  between  two 
energies.  Was  one  of  them  love?  The  other  was  cer- 
tainly weakening  in  its  grasp  upon  him. 

Still  the  sweet-voiced  peasant-girl  —  for  Vian  said  sol- 
emnly and  reproachfully  a  number  of  times  :  "She  is  only 
a  peasant-girl.  Heart  of  a  monk  and  Pythagorean,  be 
still !  "  —  still  she  sang. 

Notes  that  those  rough  old  crags  seemed  to  welcome, 
as  some  ragged  and  old  mother  embraces  a  long-lost  and 
now  luxuriantly  clad  child,  found  their  way  up  the  moun- 
tain-side, and  in  clearness  outrivalled  that  pure  air  and 
yonder  glistening  snow  far  away ;  tones  which  rambled 


2i6  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

down  to  the  brookside,  and  inserted  their  melodious  cur- 
rents within  the  ongoing  liquidness  of  that  urgent  stream  ; 
sounds  which  touched  the  earth  in  its  beauty,  dotted  with 
the  multitudes  of  flowers,  and  then  swept  upward  as  if 
the  very  gravitations  had  taken  them  to  heaven  for  the 
song  around  the  throne,  —  these  conspired  with  her  up- 
ward-looking face,  into  which  he  imagined  the  soft  light 
dashed  its  kindliest  waves,  to  make  any  man  feel  himself 
in  the  very  presence-chamber  of  the  Eternal  Loveliness, 
with  Saint  Cecilia  at  the  altar.  Hut  she  was  becoming 
more  real  than  any  saint.  Now  the  peculiar  quality  of  her 
tone  enchained  him.  She  had  come  nearer,  and  the  tones 
were  so  rich,  so  unique,  so  like  those  of  that  day  in  June  ! 

"  Giovanni  told  me,"  said  Vian  to  his  agitation,  "  that 
Pythagorean  ideas  of  woman  would  never  be  safe  with 
poets  and  musicians,  —  with  me."  This  last  he  said  with 
such  careless  emphasis  and  so  -clearly  that  the  maiden 
heard  it.  The  lovely  face  turned  toward  him  as  the 
sounds  ceased  to  make  love  with  the  sunbeams  and  the 
yellow  dandelions  which  had  opened  their  golden  breasts 
to  be  stirred. 

With  unaffrighted  air,  she  looked  up  to  the  crag.  Vian 
was  safely  hidden  from  the  glance  of  her  eyes. 

She  had  heard  but  a  fragment,  —  she  was  not  sure  that 
she  had  heard  anything  at  all.  '"With  me,  with  me?'  " 
thought  the  peasant-girl,  as  she  walked  forward  to  pluck 
another  blossom  of  monk's-hood  which  she  had  discov- 
ered,—  "'with  rae'- 

A  solitary  bird  flew  into  air  which  was  still  resonant. 

"That  bird  has  his  mate.  I  saw  them  feeding  and 
heard  them  talk  love  in  bird-tones  only  a  moment  since," 
thought  she,  certain  now  that  the  voice  she  had  thought 
she  heard  was  but  the  echo  of  her  song,  —  perhaps  the 
echo  in  her  heart  only  of  a  longing  for  companionship. 
She  did  not  dream  that  it  was  the  echo  of  her  yearning 
and  her  song  borne  back,  not  from  the  great  bare  walls 


VISIONS  AND  REALITIES.  21 7 

of  stone,  but  from  the  warm  heart  of  an  already  ruined 
Pythagorean. 

" With  me ?"  she  said  it  aloud.  "With  me?  I  could 
not  love  Salmani.  Ah  !  I  am  mateless  ;  but  I  will  sing." 

Vian,  as  he  thought,  was  rapidly  gathering  himself  to- 
gether again.  The  Pythagorean  was  again  able  to  recog- 
nize himself  in  his  own  thought,  —  considerably  battered 
and  much  distressed,  but  yet  a  Pythagorean. 

"  And  a  monk,"  said  he,  silently  but  strongly,  —  Vian 
was  whistling  an  old  tune  in  a  graveyard  full  of  dead  mo- 
tives, —  "  a  monk  under  a  vow,  under  a  solemn  vow,  — 
a  vow  that  only  such  a  base  fellow  as  Martin  Luther 
would  break,  —  a  vow  of  celibacy  which  saint  after  saint 
has  adorned." 

He  felt  a  pang  of  regret  at  having  found  himself  under 
necessity  to  call  Martin  Luther  a  base  man,  even  in  his 
thought,  so  much  did  he  long  for  the  liberty  which  the 
German  monk  had  taken,  so  truly  did  he  now  sympathize 
with  some  of  his  doctrines. 

Vian  was  confessing  the  despair  of  his  position  by 
bringing  together  his  ancient  monkish  artillery,  which  he 
had  long  ago  forsaken,  and  that  of  his  Pythagorean  philos- 
ophy which  he  would  have  been  glad  to  think  yet  unde- 
stroyed  by  the  experience  of  the  last  few  minutes.  He 
found  no  little  difficulty  in  obtaining  any  kind  of  alliance, 
offensive,  even  defensive,  between  these  irreconcilable 
powers.  Even  his  Grace,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  had  never 
had  such  difficulty  to  make  a  compact  between  Charles  V. 
and  Henry  VIII.  If  Vian  took  the  view  of  woman,  and 
of  this  woman  especially,  that  belonged  to  a  monk,  he 
must  so  unduly  twist  his  Pythagorean  notions  that  they 
would  be  useless.  If  he  persisted  that  Pythagorean  ideas 
of  all  women  were  true,  what  was  left  of  his  monkish  no- 
tions was  a  ruin.  His  soul  had  met  that  problem  vainly. 
How  could  he  look  upon  the  Holy  Virgin? 

In  the  midst  of  the  veritable  panic  created  in  his  soul 


2Ig  MONA'  AND  KNIGHT, 

by  these  foes,  the  thoughtless  maiden  began  to  sing  again. 
It  seemed  cruellest  torture.  Surely  old  ( iiovanni  had  never 
made  Abbot  Richard  suffer  so  with  flogging.  With  that  wild 
grand  freedom  which  a  strong  musical  nature,  surrounded, 
by  the  mountains  and  thrilled  with  the  experiences  of 
utterance,  amid  blazing  flowers  and  glittering,  distant 
banks  of  snow,  finds  so  fascinating  and  so  inspiring,  did 
this  voice  pour  out  its  treasured  delight.  The  first  tones 
of  this  new  song  were  volleys  of  flame,  in  which  hid  mis- 
siles of  destruction  not  to  be  resisted  by  a  man  standing 
between  two  antagonistic  philosophies,  neither  of  which 
would  lend  him  help. 

A  happy  idea  came.     It  might  be  his  salvation. 

"  It  is  the  sense  of  freedom  which  she  embodies,"  he 
meditated.  "  It  is  a  new  experience  to  me  ;  I  care  noth- 
ing for  her.  I  can  care  nothing  for  her,  but  I  do  care 
for  her  kind  of  liberty.  I  love  the  untrammelled  power 
and  richness  in  those  melodies.  I  have  lived  amid 
court  saints.  My  mind  has  been  hampered,  my  soul 
has  been  limited.  The  whole  of  my  life  ha*  been  a  genu- 
flection at  Glastonbury  or  a  ceremony  at  Whitehall.  I 
want  freedom,  —  the  freedom  of  those  tones.  I  want  just 
the  liberty  to  utter  the  music  of  my  nature  which  this 
maiden  has." 

Vian  felt  firm  ground  beneaih  him  again.  Only  one 
danger  remained.  He  had  promised  himself  the  sweet 
peril  of  looking  into  her  face. 

"  There  can  be  no  danger  in  that,"  said  he,  as  he  made 
his  place  of  concealment  a  little  more  comfortable. 

As  he  turned  over  to  avoid  unpleasant  contact  with  a 
rough  stone  which  was  wearing  its  way  into  his  Pythago- 
rean philosophy  and  annoying  his  breast,  very  near  to  his 
heart  which  had  told  the  stone  its  secret  in  great  agita- 
tion, he  thought  of  his  mission ;  and  a  smile  played  upon 
his  face.  It  was  a  sickly  smile  of  fancied  power,  and  it 
died  in  early  life. 


VISIONS  AND  REALITIES.  21 9 

Where  were  Henry  VIII.,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  the  French 
cavalry,  and  his  Holiness? 

"  And  here  I  am,"  said  he,  "  in  this  humiliated  man- 
ner, lying  stretched  out  on  these  stones  on  this  crag,  en- 
slaved to  a  vision  and  what  else  the  saints  only  know,  — 
the  trusted  emissary  of  Thomas  Wolsey.  Well,  he  was 
a  butcher's  son.  But  he  is  now  cardinal;  and  though 
he  will  not  be  Peter's  successor  at  Rome,  I  am  here  to 
arrange  the  speedy  killing  of  heretics.  I  am  —  " 

He  was  just  about  to  become  a  monstrous  murderer  of 
Waldensians  before  the  French  cavalry  could  arrive.  He 
was  unconscious  of  the  significance  of  the  act,  in  its  reve- 
lation of  his  rising  self-consciousness,  when  his  ear  caught 
the  words  which  the  maiden  was  singing,  as  she  sat  watch- 
ing the  goats.  They  were  a  translation  of  Luther's  hymn  : 
"Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott." 

"The  saints  forefend  me!"  prayed  the  Pythagorean 
monk,  who  had  long  ago  lost  his  respect  for  their  abili- 
ties in  that  direction,  but  grasped  despairingly  whatever 
he  could  clutch  in  that  bewildering  moment,  —  "the 
saints  forefend  me !  This  is  a  Waldensian.  Oh  the 
curse  of  life  !  " 

Vian  did  not  know  even  then  how  deeply  the  Walden- 
sian spirit  had  impressed  him,  how  surely  the  life  and 
character  of  the  Waldenses,  as  he  had  studied  them  in 
these  last  few  days,  had  wrought  upon  his  liberty-seeking 
soul  with  an  indescribable  and  potent  charm.  Neither 
did  he  realize,  until  that  moment,  that  no  murderous 
intention  —  for  such  it  now  seemed  to  be  —  could  ever 
overcome  the  feelings  which  he  had  toward  that  beautiful 
creature. 

"  Oh  for  a  quiet,  untroubled,  long  look  at  her  face  ! 
But,  listen  !  she  is  a  devout  Waldensian."  The  words 
came  distinctly,  accompanied  by  richest  tones. 

Was  it  the  voice  of  his  mate? 

"  I  would  instantly  slay  any  man  who  would  harm  that 


220  MOXK  AXD  KNIGHT. 

woman,"  said  the  Pythagorean,  "  though  she  be  a  Wal- 
densian?  What  is  heresy,  after  all,  but  the  assertion  of 
the  right  to  one's  own  soul  in  the  presence  of  outgn  >\vn 
traditions?  Who  are  the  Waldensians,  that  I  should  be 
planning  for  their  extermination?  They  are  pure  and 
thoughtful  people,  who  have  been  truer  to  reason  and  the 
Scriptures  than  to  priests  and  legends.  There  is  more 
truth  in  that  voice  and  in  that  song  than  in  all  the 
choirs  of  St.  Albans  and  Glastonbury.  There  !  she  is 
taking  off  the  wrapping  about  her  shoulders  !  I  would 
rather  touch  that  garment  than  the  shirt  pf  Gildas ;  and 
I  would  rather  stroke  that  sunny  hair  than  Guinevere's 
at  Glastonbury.  Oh,  how  may  I  ever  be  able  to  behold 
her  face  ! " 

A  kid  whose  mother  had  licked  its  little  face  while 
this  maiden  had  been  singing  and  the  monk  had  been 
lying  in  exquisite  tortures  upon  the  crag  above,  had  done 
what  the  Alpine  goat's  little  ones  almost  never  do,  —  it 
had  wandered  playfully  away  from  the  flock,  until  it  stood 
for  a  moment,  with  eyes  full  of  desperateness  and  igno- 
rance, where  it  comprehended  its  peril,  when,  seeing  no 
way  of  return  to  the  piteously  calling  dam,  frightened  by 
the  abyss  which  ran  far  down  amid  the  rocks  and  pines, 
it  leaped  into  a  thorn-bush,  where  it  hung  for  an  instant, 
until,  liberating  itself,  the  crying  little  beast  fell  to  the 
projecting  crag  below,  and  lay  there  bleeding,  moaning 
with  pain. 

The  instant  of  this  confusion  was  a  golden  one  to 
Vian.  He  carefully  arose,  escaping  ear  and  eye  of  the 
maiden,  and  made  his  way  over  flowers  and  broken 
stones  down  toward  the  brook  which  flowed  near  the 
side  of  the  mountain  opposite  the  goat-pasture. 

He  had  sworn  to  see  that  face. 

Hurrying  over  the  difficult  defiles  and  purple  solda- 
nellas,  never  stopping  to  pluck  a  single  star  which 
throbbed  upon  the  emerald  beneath  his  feet,  forgetful  at 


VISIONS  AND  REALITIES.  221 

last  of  Pythagoras  and  Abbot  Richard,  he  soon  found 
himself  in  the  valley  below,  beheld  by  a  woman's  tender 
eye,  which  ruefully  and  sympathetically  looked  upward 
to  an  apparently  inaccessible  place  on  which  lay  the  torn 
and  agonizing  kid. 

Once  she  turned  her  face  away.  Vian  grasped  the 
long  jewelled  dagger  which  was  the  solitary  memory  of  an 
intention  which  meant  death  to  her.  In  an  instant  it 
flashed  through  the  air,  and  as  he  saw  it  fall  out  of  its, 
rich  sheath,  he  thought  the  word  "  Surrendered  !  "  was 
written  on  its  glittering  edge. 

As  he  came  to  her,  the  vision  of  the  past  and  the  real- 
ity of  the  present  were  one.  With  incredible  rapidity 
did  the  scenes  of  childhood  and  youth  return.  He  had 
been  certain  of  meeting  his  little  mate,  somewhere, 
sometime. 

Somewhere  was  here  !  sometime  had  come  ! 

How  fatal  would  be  a  shout  of  joy;  yet  joy  was  burst- 
ing his  heart.  As  she  spoke,  down  fell  the  defences  of 
years  and  philosophies  and  fame.  As  everything  else 
had  gone  into  the  grave  except  the  vision,  so  now  every- 
thing else  was  lost  in  her  presence  and  tones.  Her  face 
was  just  like  her  voice.  Emotions  and  memories  stretched 
like  tense  strings  over  years  of  constantly  growing  fame. 
The  past  and  present  were  united  by  them ;  blasts  and 
zephyrs  played  upon  them.  The  face  filled  his  eyes  with 
satisfaction ;  the  voice  had  filled  his  ears  with  bells  of 
annunciation.  He  was  back  again,  with  her,  at  Lutter- 
worth,  where  the  wild  roses  lived  on  the  hillside,  and 
where  he  had  helped  her  to  tread  upon  the  smooth 
stones  in  the  brook.  He  had  sought  for  her  in  the 
castles ;  he  now  saw  her  in  the  dress  of  a  peasant-girl, 
with  the  pasturing  goats,  —  a  Waldensian  whom  his  plan 
would  have  murdered  ! 

Never  did  loveliness  beaming  with  sympathy  for  a  little 
brute  look  so  divine.  Tears  stood  in  Vian's  eyes,  as  he 


222  MONK'  AND  KNIGHT. 

heard  this  radiant  being  translate  and  re-utter  the  heart- 
break of  the  dam  and  the  anguish  of  the  kid.  Kings 
fled  from  before  his  gaze,  cardinals  and  popes  went 
down  forever,  as  what  he  supposed  would  be  a  woman's 
senseless  shriek  at  the  presence  of  a  man  turned  out  to 
be  a  modest  but  sufficiently  effective  welcome  to  any  one 
who  would  appreciate  her  problem. 

The  maiden's  character  was  entirely  manifested.  Ten- 
derness was  so  allied  with  conscious  power  that  false 
fears  forsook  her. 

"Permit  me  to  help  you  to  recover  the  wounded  kid," 
said  Vian. 

"  Oh,  the  little  thing  is  such  a  wanderer,  —  so  like  our 
souls,  which  wander  and  fall  and  are  bruised,"  answered 
she  ;  her  eyes  deep  as  the  sky,  her  beautiful  face  lustrous 
with  a  light  from  her  soul. 

Vian  would  have  found  in  that  kid  a  soul  re-born,  and 
in  the  dam  some  ancient  mother,  or  perhaps  a  man 
whose  deeds  in  the  last  life  had  been  evil,  if  Pythago- 
ras had  not  already  abdicated  finally  in  favor  of  this 
peasant-girl.  The  monk  could  think  of  nothing,  al- 
though he  did  stop  to  repeat  to  his  soul  the  sweet  words 
of  the  maiden  :  "  So  like  our  souls,  which  wander  and  fall 
and  are  bruised." 

Had  the  Devil  come  to  him  in  the  form  of  this  angel 
of  light? 

He  had  banished  all  thoughts  of  the  Devil.  The 
atmosphere  was  celestial,  not  infernal.  He  could  hardly 
bear  to  be  absent  from  her  lucent  gaze,  even  to  save  the 
moaning  kid. 

"  But,"  said  he  to  his  heart,  "  I  must  save  the  Wd  to 
save  myself—  and  her  ;  "  and  he  could  positively  feel  the 
smile  on  his  face,  as  he  tried  to  climb. 

Anybody  would  have  known,  by  his  awkwardness  and 
blundering,  that  he  was  no  citizen  of  the  Alps.  He 
essayed  a  pathless  ascent. 


VISIONS  AND  REALITIES.  22$ 

There  was  a  strange  feeling  in  the  breast  of  the  maiden. 
The  emphasis  of  life  seemed  suddenly  removed  from  the 
kid  to  the  rescuer.  She  was  annoyed,  then  pleased,  that 
she  feared  he  might  stumble  ;  and  she  felt  her  heart  stop 
beating,  and  cold  drops  hung  on  her  forehead  when  she 
fancied  him  whirling  through  the  air  down  into  the  abyss. 

"  Have  a  care  !  "  she  said,  before  she  thought  how  it 
would  sound  in  that  vast  gallery.  To  her  bewilderment, 
the  echo  came  tenderly  back  :  "  Have  a  care  !  " 

Vian  heard  both  the  utterance  and  the  echo.  If  it 
had  produced  a  commotion  in  her  breast,  there  was  a 
convulsion  in  the  spirit  of  Vian.  They  had  both  for- 
gotten the  kid  ;  and  Vian  nearly  forgot  to  hold  fast,  as  he 
rounded  a  rough  projection  beneath  which  yawned  a 
chasm  filled  with  primroses  and  jutting  rocks.  He  saw  a 
picture  of  his  mental  condition,  in  that  brief  glance.  He 
looked  upward  from  between  two  perpendicular  granites 
where  he  had  pushed  himself.  He  saw  the  blue  sky 
peeping  through;  then  a  great  fleecy  snow  cloud,  and 
then  the  wide  solitude  of  heaven. 

"  Have  a  care  !  "  Oh,  how  lonely  was  he  in  that 
crevice  !  He  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  so  sick 
for  the  sight  of — a  stranger,  a  female,  a  Waldensian 
peasant-girl. 

Down  below,  with  the  kid's  dam  whose  piteous  vocab- 
ulary had  hitherto  been  transformed  into  human  speech 
by  the  maiden,  upon  a  tableland,  itself  a  greater  crag, 
walked  uneasily  a  lovely  girl,  who  had  forgotten  the 
problem  of  the  mother-goat,  who  instead  was  absorbed 
with  her  own  problem,  —  a  problem  which  she  found 
made  her  feel  uncomfortable  in  regions  which  neither 
manuscripts  nor  pastoral  life  had  reached  before.  Oh, 
what  a  dreadful  vacancy  came  into  her  life,  when  this 
noble  being,  upon  whose  face  she  had  looked  but  a 
moment,  passed  upward  through  the  narrow  defile  and 
out  of  her  sight ! 


MONK  AXD   KNIGHT. 

« I  am  thankful  that  you  did  not  fall  or  get  harmed  in 
the  defile  ! "  was  the  outburst  from  the  woman,  when, 
intently  looking  up,  she  saw  the  fine  head  with  eager 
eyes  and  radiant  face  emerge  from  behind  the  little  cliff, 
and,  like  a  splendid  statue  in  dignity  and  upon  such  a 
matchless  pedestal,  Vian  stood  forth. 

She  had  never  seen  such  sinewy  strength  in  the  form 
of  such  grace  and  beauty. 

When  that  compact  and  kingly  man  bent  downward, 
and  with  inexpressible  sympathy  and  carefulness  put 
those  white  and  delicate  hands  beneath  the  bleeding 
kid,  and  the  maiden  saw  him  lift  the  bruised  one  and 
put  it  upon  his  shoulder,  its  blood  coursing  down  the 
velvet,  while  the  heroic  man  steadied  his  body,  and  with 
a  single  glance  of  his  fine  eye  swept  earth  and  sky,  she 
was  sure  that  he  was  the  tenderest  and  the  truest  of  the 
sons  of  men.  Like  a  soul  at  devotion,  she  stood  trans- 
fixed before  him.  He  looked  down  upon  her,  as  the  sun 
kindly  withdrew  behind  a  cloud.  She  was  still  silent. 
Her  eyes  then  opened  their  measureless  deeps.  Tears 
were  lying  unborn  within  their  mysterious  loveliness. 
Her  motionless  form  was  eloquent;  her  silence  was 
music  itself. 

She  would  speak,  —  if  every  rock  echoed  it.  Love 
and  religion  must  be  one  in  such  a  soul  as  hers ;  and 
each  must  be  expressive  to  exist.  It  might  seem  blas- 
phemy, but  it  was  only  truth,  and  now  it  must  be 
spoken. 

"  I  can  think  of  nothing,"  she  said,  "  but  the  words 
about  the  Saviour  bearing  his  weak  and  helpless  on  his 
shoulders ! " 

She  was  relieved.  Vian  swayed  in  the  sunshine  and 
peril. 

"  I  have  read  it  in  the  Vulgate,"  said  he,  knowing  at 
once  that  he  had  made  a  blunder  which  might  cost  him 
everything  in  that  vague,  brilliant  future  which  had  just 


VISIONS  AND  REALITIES. 


225 


dawned.  She  was  a  Waldensian  —  and  oh,  how  beau- 
tiful !  He  almost  wished  he  had  fallen  into  the  chasm. 
"The  Vulgate,"  —why  did  he  say  it? 

"  Have  a  care,  have  a  care,  I  implore  you  !  Trust 
not  your  steps  to  the  gentians  or  lilac-colored  bells 
beneath  your  feet !  You  will  slip  upon  them  !  Oh,  let 
the  kid  fall !  Save  yourself !  " 

Vian  had  nearly  fallen  over  the  precipice.  That  utter- 
ance had  saved  him  ;  yet  he  held  fast  to  the  kid. 

"  '  Himself  he  could  not  save,'  "  said  Vian,  as  he  tried 
to  rest. 

"  I  have  read  that  also,"  answered  the  maiden,  with 
firm  loveliness,  "  but  not  in  the  Vulgate.  I  have  read  it 
with  my  father  in  English,  —  even  in  John  Wycliffe's 
translation  of  the  Gospels." 

Wycliffe,  —  Lutterworth  !  The  vision  —  this  radiant 
woman  ! 

"  Oh,  bewildering  maiden,  were  you  ever  a  child  at 
Lutterworth?"  This  was  the  last  gasp  of  Pythagoreanism. 

The  maiden  made  no  immediate  answer.  She  was 
evidently  not  offended. 

"Ah,  no  !  "  she  finally  said.  "You  are  of  the  great 
folk,  as  I  believe ;  but  I  am  a  cottager's  daughter." 

"  And  your  name  ?  " 

"  Alke  !     I  am  Alke,  Caspar  Perrin's  child." 

VOL.  ii.  — 15 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

CONFUSED   CURRENTS. 

I  have  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell ; 
I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 

The  sweet,  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before,  — 

How  long  ago  I  may  not  know  ; 
But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 

Your  neck  turned  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall,  —  I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

Then,  now,  perchance  again  ! 

Oh,  round  mine  eyes  your  tresses  shake  ! 
Shall  we  not  lie  as  we  have  lain 

Thus  for  Love's  sake, 
And  sleep,  and  wake,  yet  never  break  the  chain  ? 

ROSSETTI. 

THAT  night  was  full  of  perplexities  for  every  one 
in  the  cottage  of  Gaspar  Perrin.  The  more  com- 
plete the  explanation  which  each  made,  the  more  pro- 
found was  the  darkness  in  which  these  sincere  persons 
tried  to  walk  in  friendliness.  However,  difficulties  be- 
gan soon  to  clear  away.  Vian  had  carried  the  wounded 
kid  to  the  cottage  door ;  and  Caspar,  noting  his  courtly 
air  and  dirty  though  costly  costume,  suspicious  and  a 
trifle  worried  at  his  presence,  had,  after  the  urgent 
entreaties  of  Alke,  who  always  ruled  him,  invited  the 
stranger  to  remain  for  the  night. 


CONFUSED   CURRENTS.  22J 

The  mountaineer  had  been  expecting  an  attack  from  the 
Pope's  legions  since  Christmas  Day ;  and  every  traveller 
had  been  carefully  watched,  oftentimes  searched,  as  he 
passed  to  the  monastery,  before  whose  solemn  steps  the 
cohorts  of  their  foes  had  so  often  been  paraded. 

Vian  knew  this  to  be  the  house  that  had  been  de- 
scribed to  him  as  the  secret  meeting-place  of  the  here- 
tics. He  had  expected  to  enter  it  in  a  different  state  of 
mind,  but  he  was  not  sad  or  offended.  He  had  seen 
Alke. 

In  an  hour  after  the  arrival  of  Vian,  the  Waldensians 
had  placed  the  cottage  of  Caspar  under  the  watch  of 
ten  vigilant  guards ;  and  later  in  the  evening,  one  of  the 
peasants  had  produced  a  long  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  was 
a  jewelled  cross  and  the  arms  of  Leo  X.  He  avowed  to 
the  Waldensian  leaders  that  he  found  it  in  the  valley 
below,  where  Caspar's  daughter  had  been  tending  the 
goats.  The  father  was  excited,  and  examined  it  with 
care. 

"'Tis  a  premonition,"  said  the  Barbe".  "The  papal 
cohorts  are  coming.  Not  since  Christmas  Day  have  I 
seen  an  hour  pass  that  I  have  not  beheld  strange  prep- 
arations up  yonder."  He  pointed  to  the  monastery. 
Caspar  sighed  and  went  into  the  cottage,  carrying  the 
dagger. 

"Does  Caspar  distrust  the  stranger?"  asked  an  old 
man  without. 

"  He  is  just  now  making  himself  sure.  That  man 
must  give  an  account  of  himself.  We  will  guard  him 
well,"  answered  an  armed  Waldensian. 

Strange  and  often  confusing  emotions  were  swirling  in 
curious  agitation  within  the  cottage.  With  a  frankness 
and  thoroughness  quite  characteristic  of  the  man  and  his 
faith,  Caspar  had  told  Vian  of  their  creed,  their  hopes, 
their  fears.  Alke  had  been  an  earnest  listener,  betraying 
in  this  case  a  certain  unaccustomed  tolerance  toward 


228  MOXK  AND  KNIGHT. 

strangers  which  her  father  could  not  but  dislike.  Vian 
had  asked  her  numerous  questions  about  the  curious 
manuscript  which  she  had  been  reading  on  the  day 
before  on  the  mountain-side;  and  before  long  he  had 
entirely  captivated  the  stern  father  with  his  brilliant 
sayings,  his  seemingly  inexhaustible  scholarship,  and  his 
fine  spirit.  The  honest,  outspoken  heretic  had  also 
charmed  him. 

Vian  had  felt  that  frankness  ought  to  be  met  with  frank- 
ness, and  now  that  he  had  desperately  fallen  in  love  with 
this  girl,  he  could  and  would  lose  everything  else  before  he 
would  lose  her.  When  he  touched  her  arm  in  helping 
her  over  the  brook,  he  thought  he  detected  a  motionless 
response  not  altogether  \mfavorable  to  his  hopes.  He 
knew  he  loved  her,  at  all  events.  Pythagoras,  monas- 
teries, Cardinal  Wolsey,  the  French  cavalry,  his  Holi- 
ness the  Pope,  —  they  had  done  nothing  for  his  soul. 
They  had  nearly  ruined  his  mind  and  conscience.  He 
had  long  been  a  lonely  sufferer,  and  they  had  granted 
him  no  relief.  Here  was  the  intellectual  freedom  which 
his  father  had  at  Lutterworth ;  here  was  the  reality,  — 
Alke,  —  the  vision  of  whom  had  been  his  salvation. 

What  if  he  had  been  apprehended?  He  was  willing 
to  give  up  everything,  and  be  a  prisoner  there  with  her 
forever.  He  would  tell  Caspar  Perrin  his  whole  story, 
and  he  hoped  to  be  detained  at  any  cost.  He  would 
trust  his  life  to  the  father  of  that  maiden. 

With  breathless  attention  did  Caspar  and  Alke  listen. 
Lutterworth,  with  the  heretical  Lollards ;  Glastonbury, 
with  the  struggle  for  liberty;  the  lights  and  shadows 
of  Whitehall  and  Hampton  Court,  with  the  luxurious 
Wolsey ;  the  constant  tendency  to  go  with  the  Reformers, 
and  his  love  of  "the  new  learning ;"  the  recent  expedi- 
tion into  those  mountain  fastnesses  to  prepare  for  the 
extermination  of  the  Waldensians,  and  his  constantly 
declining  desires  to  persecute,  —  all  these  chapters  in  his 


CONFUSED   CURRENTS.  22Q 

autobiography  came  with  a  just  and  reserved  eloquence, 
a  candid  vigor  of  expression,  and  an  unquestioning  trust- 
fulness in  the  honor  of  those  who,  he  was  now  told,  were 
his  captors,  all  of  which  entirely  captivated  Caspar. 

Alke  wept  and  prayed,  while  Vian  spoke. 

So  interested  was  the  father  in  the  story,  so  sure  of 
its  importance  to  the  cause  of  the  Protestants,  that  he 
noted  not  the  big  tears  and  the  upward-looking  eyes  of 
love.  He  had  so  completely  in  his  power  the  brains  of 
the  coming  foe,  that  he  could  be  gentle  and  even  just 
in  admiration. 

"  Lutterworth  was  the  home  of  Master  Wycliffe," 
said  he. 

Then  Vian  told  him  of  the  story  of  the  Wycliffe 
letters  which  his  father  left  to  him,  and  how  they  in- 
creased the  volume  of  heresy  at  Glastonbury,  and  the 
sorrows  of  Abbot  Richard,  whereupon  the  Waldensian 
went  to  the  window ;  but  Alke  was  more  swift,  and  she 
placed  the  translation  in  Vian's  hands.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  Reformation  touched  his  forehead. 

"  We  will  protect  you  as  never  a  Waldensian  was 
protected  by  him  whom  you  serve,"  promised  Caspar. 

Soon  Caspar  was  talking  without,  with  the  members 
of  the  fraternity,  who  that  night  were  to  have  held  a 
conference  at  this  cottage.  Vian  and  Alke  within  were 
talking  of  manuscripts  and  looking  love,  instead  of  lit- 
erature, into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  divine  companionship  !  "  thought  she,  as  Vian 
entranced  her  with  quotations  from  the  Greeks  whose 
names  were  household  words.  "  I  have  been  so  lonely 
in  the  world,  except  for  my  father.  I  am  glad  I  could 
not  love  Salmani."  And  then  she  wondered  what  sort 
of  feeling  it  was  which  gave  her  such  exquisite  uncom- 
fortableness.  She  had  never  seen  such  a  noble  being 
as  this.  He  appeared  to  be  as  scholarly  as  Erasmus 
and  as  human  as  Luther  himself.  She  had  never  heard 


230  MONK'  AND  KNIGHT. 

such  noble  words  as  dropped  from  his  tongue;  yet 
she  fancied  he  could  speak  even  sweeter  words  than 
those,  if  he  only  would. 

"I  am  anxious  to  know  more  about  the  treasures 
hid  in  these  monasteries,"  said  Vian  to  ('...-par.  as  the 
Waldensian  entered  and  seated  himself  on  a  rough 
stool.  "How  for  is  your  prisoner  from  the  monastery 
of  Turin?" 

"A  very  wearisome  journey  it  is  to  Turin,"  was  the 
answer.  "Why  do  you  ask  about  Turin?" 

"  Erasmus,  whom  I  had  the  distinction  to  know  when 
a  boy  at  Glastonbury,  and  later  as  a  student,  —  Master 
Erasmus  told  me  of  a  manuscript  of  Virgil,  which  one 
of  your  Waldensian  maidens  would  have  obtained  for 
him.  A  monk  of  Turin  did  love  her.  I  could  say 
more  of  him,  as  I  now  believe.  She  refused  hib  love, 
and  —  " 

Alke  was  crimson  with  blushes,  and  for  the  moment 
Caspar  was  tongue-tied. 

"  Oh,  it  is  very  strange  !  And  you  have  told  us  truth 
about  yourself?"  cried  he,  grasping  the  hand  of  Vian. 
"  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam  —  " 

"Do  you  know  him?"  interrupted  Vian,  excitedly. 
"Did  you  ever  see  the  great  Erasmus?" 

"Get  the  Greek  coins,"  shoutr  to  Alke  ;  and 

he  added,  as  she  brought  the  dull  pieces,  "  Here  they 
are.  Erasmus  gave  them  to  the  child  when  she  was 
too  young  to  know  about  them.  He  stopped  with  us, 
not  far  from  Turin,  having  lost  his  way  in  the  snows.  It 
was  a  long  time  ago.  We  did  talk  together  about  the 
Virgil  manuscript  at  Turin.  Irately,  Alke  promised  Ani- 
mo,  the  master's  friend,  that  she  would  get  the  manu- 
script from  Salmani  —  " 

"Salmani?     Is  this  Caspar  Perrin  the  printer?" 

"The  same,"  was  the  reply. 

"The  printer,  with  Aldus,  of  the   Demosthenes?" 


CONFUSED    CURRENTS.  231 

"  Yes,  I  am  he ;  and  now  I  know  you.  For  we 
have  heard  of  you  through  letters  from  Erasmus  him- 
self. You  are  Vian,  —  Vian  of  Glastonbury  !  Alke,  we 
have  heard  of  the  young  Vian,  the  scholar!" 

"The  same,"  said  Vian,  with  a  good  deal  of  joy  at 
feeling  so  welcome.  "  And  this,  then,  is  the  daughtet 
of  the  printer,  as  Erasmus  has  called  her,  —  the  one  who 
is  to  copy  the  Virgil  manuscript.  Oh,  how  strange  !  " 

Caspar  had  forgotten  the  guards  without,  until  he  over- 
heard them  talking  at  the  door.  They  had  been  roused 
by.  the  excited  speech  within,  had  heard  the  word 
"  Erasmus "  spoken  clearly,  and  thinking  a  discussion 
had  arisen  about  the  Reformers,  supposed  they  were 
needed  by  the  cottager.  . 

"  Everything  is  right,  good  friends  !  "  said  Caspar  to 
them,  as  he  opened  and  quickly  shut  the  door. 

On  second  thought,  he  deemed  it  best  to  give  his 
friends  without  a  little  more  information  as  to  his  guest. 

Soon,  therefore,  Vian  and  Alke  were  alone  again  by 
a  dim  light,  in  which  their  glances  could  find  each 
other's  eyes,  gazing  meanwhile  upon  the  freshly  made 
and  beautiful  copy  of  the  Virgil  manuscript,  which  the 
Waldensian  maiden  had  finished.  Nothing  could  have 
added  to  the  enthusiasm  of  Vian's  love  now,  save  this 
discovery  that  Alke  was  a  scholar  of  no  mean  acquire- 
ments. The  song  of  the  Roman  poet  was  as  familiar 
to  her  as  one  of  the  mountain  paths,  and  the  quota- 
tions, which  multiplied  as  the  moments  flew,  were  pro- 
nounced with  charming  accuracy  by  Alke's  sweet  lips. 
Hybla's  honey  lingered  there,  and  the  blue  yEgean  rip- 
pled in  her  smile.  He  thought  how  truly  Erasmus  had 
spoken  of  the  beauty  of  an  intelligent  woman,  one  day 
when  the  scholar  sought  to  destroy  his  Pythagoreanism. 

"And  you  painted  the  commandment  up  there?" 
asked  Vian,  as  he  read  above  the  homely  door  which 
led  into  an  apartment  that  Alke  called  her  study,  the 


232  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

words  which  Aldus  himself  had  placed  above  the  door 
of  his  own  study  in  Venice,  - 

»  Quisquis  Es  Rogat  Te  Aldus  Etiam  Atque  Etiam, 
Ut  Siquid  Est  Quod  A  Se  Velis,  Perpancis  Agas, 
Deinde  Actutum  Abeas  :    Nisi,  Tamquam  Hercules, 
Defesso  Atlanta,  Veneris  Suppositurus  Humeros. 
Semper  Enim  Erit  Quod  Et  Tu  Agas, 

Et  Quotquot 
Hue  Attulerint  Pedes." 

"I  painted  them,"  replied  she.  "You  are  the  first 
who  could  read  them,  save  my  father  and  our  Barbe. 
Those  who  can  read  are  not  expected  to  obey." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  proud  Caspar,  who  had  just  re-entered 
in  a  happy  mood,  "  now  that  you  have  seen  the  copy 
of  the  Virgil  manuscript,  which  Erasmus  will  have  if 
he  does  not  abuse  Martin  Luther,  you  must  see  the 
illuminations." 

Vian  thought  Alice's  face  was  sufficiently  radiant ;  and 
often  the  color  was  very  rich,  especially  if,  in  looking  at 
the  manuscript,  he  unwittingly  touched  her  hand.  Vian 
would  have  preferred  to  look  only  upon  that  face,  but 
he  was  willing  to  inspect  the  illuminations. 

"By  daylight,"  said  Alke  ;  and  then  she  felt  a  pang, 
because  she  had  said  something  which  for  hours  would 
part  them.  She  tried  to  save  herself  from  the  pain  of 
his  absence,  even  for  rest ;  but  it  was  too  late. 

The  cots  were  prepared.  Caspar's  guards  were  as- 
sured that  there  could  be  no  danger.  Within  a  brief 
time  the  VValdensian  was  apparently  in  deep  sleep. 
Vian's  cot  was  near  the  window ;  he  was  not  trying  to 
sleep.  Alke  was  wide  awake  thinking,  until  she  fell  into 
a  dream  of  love. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

AMI   AND   VIAN. 

"  The  pathway  of  my  duty  lies  in  sunlight ; 
And  I  would  tread  it  with  as  firm  a  step, 
Though  it  should  terminate  in  cold  oblivion, 
As  if  Elysian  pleasures  at  its  close 
Gleamed  palpable  to  sight  as  things  of  earth." 

SLEEP  avoided  Vian's  eyes.  He  was  soon  outside, 
peering  into  the  gloom  which  was  now  touched 
with  promises  of  morning  light.  The  night  would  have 
been  a  balm  to  any  soul  seeking  only  repose ;  it  was  a 
vast  horrible  silence  to  one  who  looked  outside  of  him- 
self for  a  solution  for  problems  so  new,  so  unexpected. 
The  love-lament  of  the  ring-dove  had  died  away ;  the 
brown  owl  was  voiceless,  as  he  solemnly  sat  blinking  at 
the  moon-lit  valley  which  he  surveyed  from  his  hole  in 
the  overhanging  crag.  Nothing  was  so  noisy  as  Vian's 
heart,  and  it  was  far  from  being  musical. 

Was  it  a  nightingale  which  disturbed  yonder  luxuriant 
mass  of  green,  which  looked  so  like  fairy  frostwork  under 
the  magic  of  the  moonbeams  ? 

"  Nothing  !  "  said  Vian ;  "  it  was  nothing  !  "  But  his 
heart  almost  stopped. 

Emerging  now  from  behind  a  shadowy  mist  which 
made  the  sky  away  there  over  the  cliffs  look  like  a  be- 
spangled bridal  veil,  the  moon  lit  up  the  frowning  bas~ 
tions  of  rock  with  startling  clearness.  In  his  terror,  Vian 


234'  J/c>.VA'  AXD 

could  but  stand  astonished  in  the  witchery  of  its  brilliance. 
The  brown  owl  flew  past  him. 

Crash  !  Bounding  down  from  the  height  immediately 
above  him,  tumbling  on  with  impetuous  rapidity,  borne 
on  from  spot  to  spot  by  a  momentum  gained  from  such 
a  long,  swift,  unimpeded  descent,  <\ime  a  huge  rock, —  a 
fragment  from  the  cliff  above.  With  it  came  a  shriek, 
then  a  moan ;  and  then  the  silence  of  death.  Before 
the  report  of  the  rupture  which  had  released  that  jagged 
edge  from  the  height  of  the  precipice,  Vian  thought  he 
saw  a  human  figure  there.  Then  as  it  broke  off  and  fell, 
the  armor  of  a  French  knight  glittered  into  the  valley 
below.  An  awakened  eagle  flew  upward  on  wings  which 
seemed  the  pinions  of  death. 

The  French  invaders  had  surely  come.  There  now 
stood  or  ran  from  spot  to  spot  on  the  summit  distinctly 
visible,  at  least  a  score  of  full-clad  men.  With  them  soon 
were  priests  from  the  monastery,  each  of  whom  was 
making  much  gesticulation  ;  one  of  whom  crawled  to  the 
perilous  edge  from  which  the  rock  had  been  broken 
away,  and  gazed  after  the  unfortunate. 

"  I  must  call  them  at  once,  —  Gaspar  Perrin  and  Alke. 
We  are  doomed  to  die  by  those  swords.  I  shall  die  with 
the  Waldensians,  —  gladly  let  me  die.  I  shall  perish  as  a 
Waldensian  !  " 

Vian  did  not  need  to  waken  those  who  had  slept  un- 
easily that  night.  Behind  the  trembling  sen-ant  of  W«>1- 
sey  stood  the  hardy  mountaineer,  steadily  gazing  into  the 
pale  purple  mist  which,  like  a  passionless  dream  of  death, 
had  floated  up  the  valley  as  morning  smote  the  crags. 
The  mist  was  disappearing  like  a  mysterious  memory. 
In  the  eye  of  the  intrepid  man  were  a  challenge  and 
the  fiery  prophecy  of  triumph,  which  made  Vian  pity 
him. 

Instantly  another  pair  of  eyes  looked  into  Vian's.  In 
them  were  burning  affectionateness  which  had  not  slept, 


AMI  AND    VI AN.  235 

could  not  sleep,  and  an  appealing  wistfulness  which 
made  Vian  wish  he  were  clad  with  omnipotence,  that  he 
might  protect  the  quivering  Alke.  In  the  tangled  wil- 
derness of  his  thoughts  his  purpose  was  making  its 
laborious  way.  He  was  sure  of  only  one  thing. 

"  The  glorious  creature  does  love  me  !  " 

How  did  he  reach  that  conclusion? 

He  felt  Alke's  touch  of  pitiful  trustfulness  upon  the 
sleeve  of  his  doubtlet,  still  soiled  as  it  was  with  the  blood 
of  the  dying  kid.  And  in  a  moment  he  held  her  hand, 
which  clung  to  his  with  such  a  desperate  tenderness  that 
he  was  transformed  from  feeling  himself  a  quailing  in- 
truder in  that  home  into  being  its  hero.  His  heart  beat 
with  courageous  regularity,  and  the  pallor  became  a  flush 
in  his  face  as  he  said, — 

"  My  little  mate  !  many  times  before  you  had  seen  me, 
or  I  had  beheld  your  face  as  I  do  now,  had  you  made 
me  heroic.  In  the  vision  —  " 

"The  vision?  What  vision?  "  She  released  her  grasp. 
"  I  have  never  seen  you  before.  I  do  not  believe  in 
visions." 

"  Alas  !  hold  me  fast,  Alke  !  It  was  a  poor  sinner's 
vision,  —  yes,  a  dream.  I  will  tell  you  all  here  or  in 
heaven  !  " 

Vian  and  Alke  looked  upward,  and  saw  the  same  sky, 
—  a  revelation  of  the  infinite  time  and  space  which  every 
true  human  love  seeks,  and  never  in  vain.  The  dashing 
waterfall  seemed  but  a  murmur  of  love ;  the  mellow  light 
without  a  glare  was  its  radiance ;  the  echoes  upon  the 
sweet  still  air  were  its  music ;  the  dawn  which  was  then 
making  the  peaks  translucent  was  love's  evangel. 

"We  are  near  unto  God,"  whispered  the  Waldensian 
maiden. 

"  And  unto  each  other,"  added  Vian,  who  felt  at  once 
that  the  remark  he  had  made  lacked  a  little  in  piety. 

Alke  ran  to  the  spot  where  her  father  stood  filling  his 


236  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

great  lungs  with  the  morning,  and  then  making  the 
morning  and  the  mountains  echo  with  his  long,  searching 
clarion-call.  Every  nook  and  torrent  answered  with  a 
sympathetic  cry.  The  scream  of  the  eagle,  bathing  his 
wings  in  the  liquid  dawn ;  the  bleating  of  the  wounded 
goats  which  had  just  escaped  death  in  the  path  of  the 
dislodged  rock  as  it  tumbled  into  the  valley ;  and  now 
the  shouts  of  the  mountaineers,  who  had  waited  in  armed 
silence  for  the  summons,  added  a  weird  significance  to 
each  prolonged  tone. 

"  Give  the  Virgil  manuscript   to   the  young  man,  — 
to  Vian  ! "  cried  out  Caspar  to  Alke,  unforgetful  of  the 
Renaissance  amid  the  birth-throes  of  the  Reformation. 

Alke  saw  Vian  hide  the  parchment  within  his  breast ; 
and  handing  him  the  four  coins  which  Erasmus  had  left 
with  her  babyhood,  years  before  in  their  old  home,  she 
said  with  eager  hope  in  every  syllable,  — 

"  It  may  be  that  they  will  spare  you.  Here  are  Greece 
and  Rome,  —  the  coins  and  the  manuscript  :  " 

"  I  care  not  to  escape,  except  with  something  dearer 
to  me  than  all  these.  Oh,  were  you  not  in  my  vision  at 
Lutterworth?  I  know  you  were." 

Action,  not  vision  now,  youth  !  But  all  greatest  action 
is  the  doing  of  a  vision.  "  The  French  are  here  !  " 

"  Courage,  my  children !  The  French  are  come. 
Every  one  is  a  knight !  " 

Caspar  had  said  nearly  all  that  was  in  his  heart,  as  the 
mountaineers  gathered  about  the  cottage,  and  every  one 
spoke  his  name. 

"  Here  are  the  letters,"  said  Gaston  Fuerdent ;  and  he 
gave  into  the  hand  of  Caspar  a  packet  of  letters  from 
Martin  Luther,  Ulric  Zwingli,  and  Philip  Melancthon. 
"  I  have  burned  the  letters  of  Farel." 

"  The  Barb£  commanded  it ;  it  is  wicked  to  disclose 
his  plans,"  added  Gerard  Pastre. 

All  were  agreed  that  Farel  at  Geneva  had  been  over- 


AMI  AND    VI AN.  237 

zealous,  and  had  made  too  full  a  description  of  the  plans 
of  the  Swiss  Reformers. 

"All  are  consumed,"  said  a  youth, — the  son  of 
Fuerdent,  —  who  gazed  with  modest  •  interest  into  Vian's 
eyes. 

"  An  intruder  I  am  aware  I  am,"  said  Vian.  "  Perhaps 
I  am  suspected  — 

"  Be  silent !  "  said  Caspar,  before  Vian  could  complete 
his  remark. 

"  Be  silent !  "  they  all  said  ;  and  Louis  Savan  relieved 
his  mind  by  interjecting,  — 

"  We  would  have  been  unprepared  for  the  wretches  for 
a  week  if  you  had  not  come.  Now  the  victory  is  ours  !  " 

He  called  the  mountaineers  to  witness. 

"  We  bless  you  !  "  they  all  cried  out,  as  Alke  stole  up 
into  quite  significant  nearness,  and  looked  as  if  she  would 
have  said,  — 

"  Vian,  you  are  in  the  best  place  in  the  world  for 
you  —  for  me." 

Every  man  inspected  his  arms.  Old  Henry  Arnon 
grasped  the  jewelled  hilt  of  a  dagger,  —  the  dagger  which 
Vian  had  once  thrown  away.  The  Englishman  looked  at 
it  with  interest,  and  thought  of  the  circumstances  in 
which  he  parted  with  it.  Wolsey  would  never  see  it 
again. 

"Where  is  Wolsey,  Lord  Cardinal?  Where  is  his 
Holiness?  Where  am  I?"  thought  the  young  man. 

There  was  a  stiff  old  manuscript  near  his  heart ;  but 
something  else  was  much  more  near.  Alke,  pale  with 
fear,  stood  alone  by  his  side  ;  while  the  rough  men  of  the 
mountains  looked  upon  Vian  half  as  their  deliverer,  half 
as  their  prisoner.  The  powerful  soul  of  the  maiden  was 
summoning  every  energy  to  say  a  word  which  lay  upon 
her  heart. 

"  Would  you  willingly  die  believing  in  the  grace  of 
God?  "  She  had  thus  spoken  it  at  last ;  and  every  sense 


238  MONK'  AXO  KNIGHT. 

of  danger  fled  from  her  soul.  She  had  been  so  true  to 
God  and  her  own  conscience,  that  she  easily  ascended 
heights  impossible  before. 

Vian  confessed  the  omnipotence  of  the  inquiry.  Love 
and  religion  stood  behind  Alke's  appeal. 

"  We  are  standing  only  for  a  moment  together  here,  and 
the  next  may  see  one  or  both  of  us  before  the  great  white 
throne." 

The  words  roused  the  drops  of  blood  which  a  Wycliffite 
father  had  put  into  Vian's  veins,  —  so  much  did  these 
words  remind  him  of  Lutterworth,  so  much  did  they  seem 
to  be  a  fragrant  distillation,  from  the  spirituality  which 
blossomed  in  the  Wycliffe  letters.  Oh,  so  much  more 
clearly  was  Alke  the  real  mate  of  those  childhood  dreams, 
the  soul  of  his  life,  that  he  half  sobbed,  and  said  hurriedly 
as  he  saw  the  stir  outside,  — 

"  I  trust  myself  to  your  Saviour's  grace,  but  I  never 
was  so  anxious  to  live  as  I  am  now.  The  vision  !  - 

"  Ah,  Vian  !  He  must  be  your  Saviour.  I  cannot  be 
your  priest." 

"I  am  done  with  priests,"  said  Vian,  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"But  you  are  not  done  with  your  Saviour?"  The 
eyes  of  wistful  fearlessness  were  full  of  tears. 

«  No,  —  oh,  my  mate,  soul  of  mine  !  —  no ;  I  am  just 
beginning  with  Christ.  But  I  never  wanted  to  live  as  I 
do  now." 

"  Because  you  are  now  prepared  to  die?  " 

"  I  am  prepared  to  live  or  to  die  —  for  you." 

A  gleam  of  polished  steel  flashed  from  the  moss- 
covered  ledge  not  far  from  the  cottage. 

"  Arm  !  arm  !  arm  !  "  cried  Gaston  Fuerdent. 

"Conceal  yourselves  within  !"  whispered  Gerard  Pas- 
tre,  whose  eyes  lingered  with  Alke  and  Vian,  as  he  turned 
away. 

"  No,"  said  Vian,  —  "  no ;   I  must  fight.     I  must,  —  I 


AMI  AND    VI AN.  239 

have   imperilled  you.     I  qught  —  but  I  could  not  have 
saved  you." 

The  man's  soul,  conscious  of  having  done  all  it  could, 
was  full  of  contrary  emotions  and  .opposing  thoughts. 
But  he  could  not  be  mistaken.  The  shout  of  the  French 
knights  pierced  the  silence  of  the  cottage,  coming  over 
the  clamor  of  the  mountaineers. 

.  Alke  looked  upon  him  with  fond,  yearning  eyes.  Vian 
dared  to  feel  his  heart  crying  for  utterance.  "  I  will  tell 
her  that  I  love  her;  I  will  claim  her  now  as  my  own," 
thought  he.  "  I  may  never  again  have  the  privilege." 

"  Hide  the  young  man,  Alke,  child  of  my  soul  !  Hide 
him  ! "  commanded  Gaspar,  through  the  half-opened 
door. 

"  I  shall  not  be  protected  at  such  cost,  —  the  life  of 
my  little  mate,  so  precious  !  I  will  die  concealing  you, 
Alke  !  "  and  he  seized  a  sword  provided  for  a  critical 
moment. 

"  Oh,  I  must  make  you  safe  !  Yonder  is  safety.  Hide 
at  once  !  I  will  cover  you,  —  with  my  own  body  if  need 
be,"  was  the  swift,  eager  response. 

A  thrill  of  pain,  then  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  through  the 
he*art  of  what  was  once  a  monk  and  a  Pythagorean, 
now  so  transformed.  Silently  Alke  looked  upon  him 
with  commanding  love.  Suddenly  the  stern  manhood 
yielded  a  little. 

"  Cover  me  with  your  dead  body  ?  Oh,  God  !  Oh, 
Alke  !  "  said  he. 

"  Yes,  willingly,  gladly  !  "  answered  she. 

The  fiery  air  was  a  thin  but  all-encompassing  flame. 
At  once  a  burning,  half- frenzied  kiss  bound  them  to- 
gether for  an  instant,  distilling  into  each  heart  the  joy  of 
a  whole  eternity. 

"  I  shall  fight  without  concealment,"  shouted  the 
intoxicated  lover. 

"  You  shall  be  covered  by  my  love,"   protested  the 


240  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Waldensian  maiden,  as  she  wrapped  the  velveted  man  in 
a  coarse  garment,  dearer  to  him  than  the  robe  of  a 
queen. 

Outside,  the  excit«ment  was  now  intense.  The  invad- 
ers had  gained  the  path  and  were  hurrying  near. 

"  I  '11  warm  it  in  the  heart  of  a  heretic,"  said  a  French 
knight,  as  he  touched  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"  Did  you  ever  smell  the  fumes  of  a  roasted  Walden- 
sian? "  asked  an  ugly-faced  priest,  lumbering  along  after 
the  knightly  leader,  who  appeared  moody  and  was  silent. 

Vague  memories  were  crowding  into  this  French 
knight's  brain  ;  and  he  said  to  his  heart  :  "  Oh,  faithless 
coward !  Peter  was  the  '  rock-man.'  I  am  here  for 
Peter's  holy  successor.  Harden,  soft  spirit  within  me  ! 
Spare  not  a  heretic  !  Kill  all,  and  then  burn  !  Ixmg 
live  his  Holiness  Pope  Clement  VII.  !"  shouted  the 
chosen  friend  of  Francis  I. 

Around  the  edge  of  the  mountain,  where  it  met  the 
noisy  stream,  and  where  the  shadow  fell  upon  the  Wnl- 
densians,  —  every  man  upon  his  knees,  —  Gaspar  IVrrin 
was  bearing  their  cause  to  the  throne  of  a  just  G«>d. 

The  French  soldiery  advanced  in  a  solid  company,  a 
priest  at  the  side  of  the  leader  mumbling  snatches  'of 
Latin,  as  he  held  before  them  a  gilt  cross.  The  bells  of 
the  convent  were  ringing.  Gerard  Pastre  gave  a  signal 
to  a  Waldensian.  Down  from  the  height  above,  like  a 
bolt  from  Israel's  Jehovah,  came  a  large  rock,  tumbling, 
leaping,  jagged  with  desolating  energy.  It  tore  its  \\.\\ 
through  the  French  soldiery  with  merciless  force. 

"  Heaven  is  against  us  !  "  shouted  one  of  the  dismayed 
knights.  The  priest  forgot  his  scraps  of  Latin,  and  with 
white  face  aimlessly  waved  the  gilt  cross.  It  was  all  in 
vain ;  a  nameless  horror  had  broken  upon  them. 

"  Mother  of  God  !  "  groaned  a  dying  knight. 

"  Holy  saints  and  martyrs,  pray  for  us  ! "  shrieked 
another,  over  whose  brilliant  armor  the  mountaineers 


AMI  AND    VI AN.  241 

triumphantly    came,    every    eye    blazing   with    a    fierce 

joy- 
Still  the  convent  bell  was  ringing.     The  French  were 
disorganized,  panic-stricken ;  all  in  retreat,  save  the  frag- 
ment of  their  band,  which  had  now  entered  the  cottage 
and  were  laying  it  waste. 

In  the  wainscoted  room  two  men  were  in  mortal  com- 
bat. A  pale  but  heroic  woman  lay  on  the  floor.  She  was 
stunned^  prostrate  by  a  blow  from  the  hand  of  the  knight. 
Before  that  knight  stood  a  hated  man,  skilfully  Hand- 
ling a  sword,  as  he  had  learned  to  do  from  Fra  Giovanni 
at  Glastonbury,  and  later  on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold."  But  it  was  now  for  life  or  death. 

"Villain  !  "  cried  out  the  knight,  as  his  sword  se^in:  1 
sure  of  Vian's  heart. 

"  Wretch  !  "  shouted  Vian,  as  he  twisted  the  gleaming 
steel. 

"  Apostate  monk  !  I  '11  kill  you  with  your  shameless 
love  in  sight  !  "  exclaimed  the  French  knight,  as  he 
leaped  at  Vian,  gasping,  "  Astr£e  !  Astree  ! "  while  his 
eye  was  aflame. 

Backward  and  farther  backward  was  Vian  forced,  into 
the- very  corner  where  Alke  lay.  Nearer  and  yet  nearer 
to  his  heart  came  the  touches  of  the  fine  sword  which 
once  Bayard  had  wielded.  The  knight,  however,  was 
growing  weak,  and  the  other  knew  it. 

"  I  must  not  kill  you,  rather  let  me  die,"  cried  out  the 
monk,  as  at  length  the  sword  of  the  knight  fell  from  the 
hand  of  the  wounded  man,  who  muttered  his  overmastering 
rage. 

There  was  a  movement  under  the  shadow.  Alke  had 
regained  consciousness  ;  and  rising,  she  flung  herself  upon 
the  issue  of  the  conflict  with  an  aimless  courage  which 
looked  piteously  unto  Vian.  The  bleeding  knight  was 
roused  at  the  thought  of  the  apostate  monk  and  the 
woman  —  together  here! 

VOL.    TT.  l6 


242  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Overmastered  by  Vian,  and  yet  spared  ! 

"  Spare  not  a  heretic  !  "  rang  again  in  his  ears. 

He  could  kill  the  woman,  and  that  would  kill  the 
man,  —  the  man  who  had  been  a  hateful  demon  to  him 
for  all  these  years  !  Even  knighthood  had  lost  its  honor 
in  the  passion  of  whose  tormenting  fury  this  knight  was 
but  a  charred  ruin. 

In  an  instant  the  French  knight  compressed  all  his 
hate  in  a  dagger- point  which  glared  toward  Alke's  bosom. 
In  the  same  instant  Vian's  bosom  felt  its  safety,  as  the  des- 
perate energy  of  the  knight  broke  the  dagger's  point  in 
the  tough  parchment  of  the  Virgil  manuscript  lying  in-xt 
Vian's  heart,  unimpenetrable. 

What  was  it  that  came  like  a  death-damp  to  the 
knight's  heart  and  hung  like  a  horrible  charm  above  her, 
as  he  struck  at  that  woman  ? 

As,  in  another  dreadful  instant,  the  knight  thought  of 
it,  a  blow,  —  Vian  could  not  master  himself  now,  —  a 
swift,  awful  blow  fell  upon  him,  and  he  lay  breathless  on 
the  floor  of  Caspar  Perrin's  cottage,  entirely  uncon- 
scious, even  when  his  dismayed  followers  seized  his  ;m 
tagonist  Vian,  tore  him  from  Alke's  breaking  heart,  and 
placing  him  in  chains,  hurried  away  with  thteir  prisoner 
from  the  scene  of  such  a  disastrous  defeat. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

CASPAR'S  WOUNDED  GUEST. 

There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights, 
There  are  fire-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby  piled-up  honors  perish, 
Whereby  swollen  ambitions  dwindle, 
Which  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse, 
Which  for  once  had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  lifetime 
That  away  the  rest  have  trifled. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

A  SO  FT  film  of  lazy  sunshine  hung  over  the  sides  of 
Monte  Vandalin.  Even  the  little  spurs  toward 
Lucerne  assumed  an  easy  indifference  in  the  delicious 
dreaminess  of  the  air.  Autumn  was  holding  her  last  beau- 
tiful festival ;  and  the  winds  of  October  paused  at  the 
threshold,  that  they  might  not  disturb  the  fragrant  calm. 
The  hue  of  burnished  gold  was  losing  itself  here  and  there 
in  the  red  leaves  which  lingered  with  the  sobbing  breezes 
over  sacred  ground. 

"Those  red  leaves  are  blood-drops.  Heaven  itself 
will  not  permit  us  to  lose  the  memory  !  "  said  Alke,  as  she 
lifted  the  wounded  and  swollen  foot  of  her  father,  and 
placed  it  upon  a  soft  bit  of  lambskin,  which  she  had 
fastened  to  the  oaken  stool  upon  which  he  was  now 
resting  it. 

"  No,"  answered  Caspar.  "  But  we  must  remember 
something  beside  the  sorrow,  the  blood,  the  dead.  We 
are  Christians ;  and,  Alke  —  That  noise  ?  " 


244 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 


"  It  is  only  the  soldier.  He  has  not  groaned  as  he  did 
yesterday.  Poor  fellow  !  he  looked  into  my  face  this 
morning  when  I  gave  him  the  cordial.  He  sighed  and 
smiled  so  piteously,  —  I  wondered  if  he  knew  how  nearly 
he  came  to  striking  that  dagger  into  me  ;  butVian —  Yes; 
the  soldier,  —  he  seems  grateful.  He  must  be  some  great 
personage  at  the  court  of  Francis.  Such  armor  - 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  Caspar  pursued,  "  we  are  Christians. 
I  do  not  mean  by  saying  that,  that  we  ought  to  be  think- 
ing of  our  cause  and  its  righteous  victory.  But,  Alke  — 
That  muttering  sound  !  " 

"  The  poor  man  is  saying  something ;  I  will  go  to 
him,"  she  said ;  and  she  dropped  the  task  she  was  trying 
to  accomplish  without,  under  the  little  festooned  arbor, 
and  hurried  within  to  the  French  knight,  who  was  restless 
with  suffering. 

"  I  do  not  mean  that  we  ought  to  be  quoting  to  our- 
selves warlike  words  from  the  Psalms  to  make  us  feel  like 
Christians  now."  Caspar  was  talking  to  his  own  con- 
science, as  he  looked  out  into  the  scarlet  vines,  beneath 
which  his  eye  discovered  a  shining  helmet,  another  relic 
of  that  victory.  "  But  I  do  think  Alke  and  I  will  feel 
more  like  Christians  if  we  think  of  the  Gospels  and  try  — 
oh,  how  hard  that  poor  girl  is  trying  !  —  try  to  love  our 
enemies." 

Another  long,  plaintive  groan  came  from  the  room  in 
which  the  wounded  soldier  lay.  In  a  few  moments, 
however,  Alke  came  under  the  arbor  and  resumed  her 
task. 

"  He  is  sleeping  now,"  she  said  softly,  "  but  he  mutters 
such  strange  words." 

Alke  burst  into  tears.  Caspar,  with  twinges  of  pain, 
moved  his  foot  in  his  effort  to  get  hold  of  her  hand  ; 
reaching  which,  he  pulled  her  close  to  him.  The  start  of 
agony  communicated  itself  to  the  sympathetic  Alke.  At 
once  she  was  stroking  the  wounded  foot  with  gentleness 


CASPAR'S   WOUNDED   GUEST.  24$ 

and  love,  while  the  tears  fell  upon  the  lambskin  and 
moistened  the  dry  blood-stains. 

"  Oh,  it  is  hard  to  be  a  Christian  !  "  she  sobbed. 

"  Harder  to  be  a  burden-bearing  or  a  forgiving  Chris- 
tian than  to  be  a  fighting  one,  my  child  ! "  added 
Caspar,  as  he  sought  relief  for  himself  and  for  her  in 
moralizing  just  a  little. 

"  Vian  !  " 

They  both  heard  the  word  "  Vian." 

Each  looked  anxiously  into  the  face  of  the  other,  and 
saw  only  wonder  struggling  with  forgiveness.  Alke  threw 
her  womanly  head  upon  Caspar's  breast,  and  cried,  — 

"  I  cannot  go  into  that  room,  —  I  cannot !  I  have 
gone  as  far  in  being  a  Christian  —  " 

"  Be  a  Christian  !  "  commanded  the  Waldensian,  with- 
out a  tone  of  cant  in  his  words. 

Alke  looked  up,  submissive  and  sublime  in  her  spiritual 
loveliness.  "  I  will,"  said  she.  "  It  was  only  the  slip- 
ping of  my  feet  on  the  rocks.  I  did  not  fall  quite?  " 

"  No ;  you  did  not  fall,  my  child.  But  this  is  a  slip- 
pery and  hard  road  for  you." 

"  My  father  !  "  she  whispered ;  and  then  she  said  in  a 
womanly  tone  :  "  My  father,  it  is  hard  here  and  now  to 
be  a  Christian.  That  soldier  yonder  came  leading  a 
murderous  band  of  cruel  knights  and  priests  upon  our 
home.  He  loaned  his  beauty  and  his  strength  to  the 
vicious  monks,  who  harass  our  lives  and  spit  upon  the 
Gospel.  His  dagger  —  I  will  keep  it  for  a  memory  — 
glittered  at  my  heart.  I  cannot  forget  that  cry,  '  Spare 
not  a  heretic  ! '  when  he  threw  me  to  the  floor,  and  —  " 

Alke  stopped. 

"Vian!" 

Caspar  and  Alke  both  heard  it.  The  soldier,  delirious 
with  agony,  groaned  as  he  spoke  that  word,  "  Vian." 

"  How  did  a  French  knight  know  Vian,  an  Englishman  ? 
Wherever  did  he  learn  that  name?"  Caspar's  inter- 


246  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

est  was  quickening.  "  Alke.  did  they  fight  as  do  old 
foes?" 

Alke  had  never  thought  of  this  remarkable  circum- 
stance, so  much  more  remarkable  had  been  her  experi- 
ences. A  dreadful  uncertainty  plied  with  the  fearless 
wonder  within  her  heart.  Life  had  come  to  be  an  awful 
mystery,  which  in  one  golden  day  had  dropped  into 
another  mystery  more  awful  still. 

"  I  know  not.  Ah  !  I  remember  too,"  she  said,  her 
eyes  speaking  with  more  of  bewilderment  than  of  discov- 
ery,—  "I  remember  now,  that  when  the  conflict  outride 
was  at  its  height,  and  this  young  knight  alone  rushed 
upon  Vian  —  "  Alke  could  say  no  more.  That  frightful 
memory  of  her  loved  Vian,  the  horribly  fierce  eyes  of  the 
maddened  knight,  the  desperate  encounter,  the  heroism 
of  Vian  in  saving  her,  the  last  look  of  Vian,  as  they  led 
him  away  chained,  —  all  came  over  her  again  like  a 
ghastly  reality.  Caspar  pitied  her  ;  and  while  his  breast 
was  a  turmoil  of  hate  and  love,  he  was  half,  indignant 
when  from  the  cottage  the  sound  came  again :  "  Vi 

"  That  name  again  upon  those  cruel  lips  !  Oh,  it  is 
too  much  !  "  exclaimed  Alkr. 

She  remembered  that  at  the  beginning  of  their  conu  st 
in  the  cottage,  indeed  on  the  instant  when  the  knight 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  Vian,  he  had  hissed  upon  him  as  if 
her  lover  were  another  venomous  reptile.  As  they  con- 
fronted each  other,  the  words  "  Apostate  monk  !  "  burned 
in  the  air.  Some  slumbering  volcano  of  rage  and  hate 
seemed  ready  to  burst  out  from  the  soul  of  the  knight 
and  belch  its  fury  upon  Vian. 

To  know  this  alone,  however,  was  to  know  insufficiently  ; 
for  not  even  the  combatants  knew  the  depth  of  those 
experiences  of  their  own  characters  in  that  hour  when 
swirling  passions  leaped  and  tossed  themselves,  obedient 
to  the  gathered  impulse  of  years.  Into  the  glare  of  those 
eyes  which  had  looked  upon  Alke's  lover  in  the  home  of 


CASPAR'S   WOUNDED  GUEST.  247 

his  beloved,  were  come  the  passions  which  had  been 
growing  more  furious  since  the  days  of  the  "  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold ;  "  the  fiery  jealousy  which  surrounded 
Astree,  the  agonizing  desperation  which  had  risen  out  of  a 
stormy  soul  in  its  search  for  a  faith ;  the  contempt  which 
a  knight  of  such  temper  and  history  felt  for  a  recreant 
servant  of  a  philosophy,  a  king,  and  a  pope ;  and  above 
all,  the  uncontrollable  hate  which  was  born  at  once  when 
that  trusted  emissary  was  seen  to  have  sunk  the  banners 
of  France,  England,  and  Rome  within  his  love.  All 
these  were  behind  that  last  cry  :  "  Spare  not  a  heretic  !  " 
But  now  Alke  knew  it  not,  as  again  she  heard  him  groan, 
"Vian!  Vian  !  I  say  !  " 

Gaspar  and  she  held  their  souls  in  patient  silence. 
They  had  made  the  precept  "  Love  your  enemies "  a 
fact  of  truest  significance  to  the  knight.  It  had  not  come 
without  a  struggle.  An  hour  after  that  conflict  Alke  had 
thought  herself  a  widowed  soul.  The  rage  and  anguish 
which  the  faces  of  his  marauding  band  exhibited  when 
they  thought  their  leader  dead  on  the  cottage  floor,  Alke' 
was  sure  had  been  meted  out  to  Vian,  their  prisoner. 
Great  as  was  her  affection  for  such  a  man,  which  years 
had  grown  and  a  single  day  had  discovered,  it  was  om- 
nipotent after  that  scene.  It  wove  ten  thousand  fancies, 
and  bedewed  with  generous  tears  the  memory  of  an  idol 
which  was  now  an  ideal.  So  terrible  was  the  grief,  so 
benumbing  the  agony  of  that  sudden  separation,  that  at 
first  Alke  was  ready  to  fly  into  the  extremest  passion  of 
altruistic  devotion.  She  had  resolved  to  nurse  the  foe. 
The  neighbors  had  their  dead  and  dying  to  look  out  for. 
Alke  had  her  hospital  too,  with  its  two  patients,  —  her 
father,  and  the  young  knight  whom  Vian  had  perhaps  fatally 
struck.  For  two  days  he  had  made  no  manifestation  of 
returning  consciousness.  Her  own  suffering  of  heart  was 
so  keen  that  the  presence  of  the  merciless  but  silent  foe 
of  her  own  lover  proved  a  means  of  restoring  a  sort  of 


MONK'  AND  KXIGHT. 

equilibrium.  Caspar  had  not  yet  looked  into  hi- 
for  he  was  trying  to  be  a  Christian  at  Alke'- 
Cordials,  gruels,  and  banda^-s  h.id  been  applied  to  the 
soldier.  The  only  gratitude  expressed  came  as  a  mut- 
tered word  which  Alke  could  not  understand,  and  that 
single  smile  which  was  so  piteous  as  to  afflict  her  heart. 
§he  resolved  to  be  worthy  of  him  whom  she  now  believed 
to  be  dead  ;  and  how  could  she  more  genuinely  exem- 
plify her  faith  in  Christ  than  by  being  a  Christian  ?  She 
went  on  repeating  the  words,  "  Love  your  enemies," 
until  this  change  came. 

As  a  change  had  now  come  to  the  knight,  a  change 
had  also  been  attested  in  Alke.  A^  we  have  found  her 
on  this  October  day,  the  soldier  is  able  to  pronounce  at 
least  one  word  which  she  may  understand,  —  Vian,  —  and 
Alke  knows  how  hard  it  is  to  be  a  Christian. 

Other  words  were  muttered  at  nightfall,  —  "  Astre"e," 
"  His  Holiness,"  «  Wretch  !  " 

That  night  Caspar  lay  awake  and  listened  for  hours  to 
such  words  as  these.  Indeed,  he  could  not  sleep,  having 
heard  the  stricken  man  pronounce  the  first  words.  The 
exhausted  Alke  lay  upon  the  couch  next  the  window. 

Soon  the  Waldensian  found  strangely  tender  feelings 
dominating  his  mind  as  he  listened  to  the  soldier's  woful 
exclamations.  They  carried  the  mind  of  Caspar  away 
from  these  scenes.  He  was  back  again  in  Venice  court- 
ing with  the  daughter  of  Count  Aldani  Neforzo  as  to- 
gether they  worked  in  their  poverty.  What  a  strange 
thing  that  that  knight  who  would  have  murdered  Caspar's 
daughter  should  bring  to  him  at  this  hour  these  dear 
recollections ! 

Still  the  words  continued  to  pour  forth  from  the 
suffering  man ;  still  did  Caspar  Perrin  feel  the  old  mem- 
ories about  his  heart. 

"  No  one,"  said  the  husband  Caspar  Perrin,  widowed 
so  long  ago,  — "  no  one  but  she  ever  pronounced  the 


CASPAR  'S   WOUNDED   GUEST.  249 

words  '  His  Holiness,'  with  that  lisping  tone,  —  no  one 
but  Alke's  mother."  He  felt  again  the  grief  of  that  far- 
away day,  when  he  refused  to  pay  for  prayers  for  the 
dead. 

"  Vian  !  "  sharply  rang  again  the  voice. 
"  It  is  the  voice  of  Count  Aldani  Neforzo  come  to 
earth  again,"  thought  Gaspar,  as  he  sat  up  and  looked 
over  to  the  cot  by  the  door. 

All  became  silent  again.  The  pale  reflections  of  the 
moonlight  were  travelling  across  the  wainscoting ;  and 
as  the  disquieted  Gaspar  sat  upright  in  bed,  forgetful  of 
his  aching  foot,  he  calculated  that  very  soon  the  light  of 
the  moon  would  be  falling  into  the  face  of  the  wounded 
knight,  —  the  face  which  Alke  had  said  was  very  beautiful. 
Why  cared  Gaspar  to  steal  a  single  look?  He  could 
not  tell;  he  only  knew  that  since  he  had  heard  that 
voice,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  sleep  or  content  his 
wakefulness  without  the  promise  of  a  look  upon  that  face. 
He  had  always  studied  faces,  since  Ami  had  been  taken 
from  him,  and  had  unaccountable  feelings  with  regard  to 
this  one. 

At  length  the  moment  came  when  the  light  silvery 
glow  rested  upon  the  face.  There  was  a  careful  move- 
ment in  the  bed  by  the  cupboard  ;  and  soon  Gaspar  was 
moving  slowly,  dragging  his  enswathed  and  bandaged  foot 
after  him,  as  he  felt  his  way  between  chairs  and  stools 
toward  the  slumberer.  Quite  a  picture  it  would  have  been 
for  the  crickets  which  chirped  without  the  door,  as  the 
time-worn  face  of  Gaspar  came  within  the  glow,  and  the 
tireless  eyes  looked  upon  the  moonlit  face  of  the  knight. 
Gaspar  shook  from  head  to  heel  as  he  gazed  ;  but  the 
night  air  was  cold,  as  he  thought. 

Was  it  in  the  nostril,  which,  as  the  knight  breathed 
heavily,  made  Gaspar  feel  that  Count  Aldani  Neforzo,  the 
grandfather  of  Alke,  was  again  before  him  ?  That  forehead 
from  which  fell  a  wealth  of  light  hair,  a  cloud  of  gold  in 


250 


MONK  AND   K'NTGHT. 


the  moonlight,  —  Alke's  hair  was  so  like  it ;   and  the  lips, 

they  were  such  lips  as  Caspar  the  lover  had  kissed  in 

Venice,  when  he  embraced  the  daughter  of  Neforzo. 
The  soldier's  hand  was  lying  outside  the  coarse  coverlet,  — 
a  long,  slender  hand,  and  the  nails  of  the  fingers,  oh, 
he  must  not  fancy  it,  —  but  they  were  like  the  mother's, 
the  wife's,  —  so  like  them  !  A  ring  upon  one  finger,  —  a 
costly  ring,  with  the  papal  arms  engraved  upon  the  emer- 
ald, caught  the  weird  splendor ;  and  the  hand,  which  now 
moved  with  a  twitch  of  pain,  was  so  like  his  own,  except 
the  nails,  —  "  so  like  mine,"  he  said  ;  "  only  mine  are  old 
and  tired." 

Caspar  was  enthralled.  "Oh,  if  this  soldier  would 
only  open  his  eyes  !  Delirious  as  he  is,  he  would  not 
know  me,  even  if —  But  I  might  —  I  might  see  their 
color,"  mused  the  serious  man.  "  If  Ami  is  living  — 
yes,  he  would  be  about  the  age  of  this  poor  wounded 
fellow  !  I  hunted  in  vain  for  his  burial-place.  This  sus- 
pense,—  it  is  intolerable.  But  I  cannot  sleep  now,  I 
have  seen  the  soldier's  face  !  " 

Caspar  did  not  sleep.  But  when  morning  came  and 
Alke  saw  that  there  were  blood -drops  on  the  floor,  the 
Waldensian  bade  silence,  for  he  had  a  plan. 

"I  will  explain  the  presence  of  those  drops  of  blood," 
he  said.  "  Bring  me  word,  Alke,  at  the  moment  when 
you  find  out  the  color  of  those  eyes." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A    GOLDEN   DAY. 

Facesti  come  quei  che  di  notte, 

Che  porta  il  lume  dietro,  e  se  non  giova 

Ma  dopo  se  fa  le  persone  dotte. 

DANTE. 

"   f  T  E   is  awake  now,"  said  the  careworn  Alke,  as 

JL  Jl  next  day  she  came  close  to  Caspar,  who  sat 
again  under  the  arbor  writing  a  letter  to  his  friend  the 
Reformer  Philip  Melancthon,  in  which  he  was  relating 
the  providences  of  Heaven,  and  telling  him  all  about 
Vian,  "  the  apostate  monk,"  and  this  suffering  victim  of 
Vian's  daring. 

"Did  you  mark  the  color  of  those  eyes?"  inquired 
Caspar,  anxiously. 

"  I  cannot  tell  it,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What !  you  ?  Alke,  a  painter  ought  to  know  blue 
from  green,  and  black  from  brown,"  said  Caspar,  a  smile 
dying  in  anxious  wonder  on  his  face. 

Alke  had  never  seen  the  sea.  She  had  read  Homer 
and  Virgil,  and  had  listened  to  her  father's  descriptions 
of  Venice ;  and  she  asked  him,  "  Of  what  color  is  the 
sea?" 

"  Why,"  he  began  assuredly,  —  "  why,  yes ;  the 
sea  —  why,  the  sea  is  —  "  That  was  the  color  of  the 
soldier's  eyes.  He  could  see  that  indescribable  color 


2^2  ,1/aVA'  AXD  KXIGHT. 

in  the  eyes  of  Alke,  as  she  looked  archly  upon  her 
father's  perplexity. 

They  had  within  them  the  oceanic  green  which  is 
so  soon  blue,  and  the  abysmal  blue  which  grows  restless 
with  suggestions  of  profoundest  darkness,  —  darkness 
which  is  altogether  warm  and  beautiful.  She  did  not 
try  to  describe  them,  for  she  saw  her  father  understood 
her  meaning.  The  sea,  —  he  seemed  at  once  to  be 
looking  out  upon  its  tireless  change  and  fathoming  its 
liquid  depths.  Besides,  there  were  Alke's  eyes  fixed 
upon  him, — like  the  sea  in  myriad-minded  revelation; 
and  all  that  he  desired  to  know  he  had  found  out.  The 
knight's  eyes  were  like  Alke's. 

"  I  suspected  it  —  Caspar's  manner  betokened  the 
formation  of  a  still  more  complex  plan.  And  then  the 
hands  which  years  ago  held  the  lost  child  and  had  since 
worked  so  untiringly  for  Alke  began  to  count  each  other's 
fingers,  betraying  to  Alke  the  fact  that  her  father,  whose 
face  was  aglow  with  something  more  radiant  than  the 
autumnal  sunshine,  was  enumerating  years  and  probing 
another  sensitive  mystery. 

In  a  few  days  the  French  soldier  had  become  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  move  about  the  room.  He  had  not, 
however,  taken  a  single  step  without  the  consciousness 
that  the  eye  of  this  cottager  was  upon  him.  It  annoyed 
his  proud  spirit. 

"  Of  course,"  said  he  to  his  offended  pride,  "  this 
espionage  is  most  natural ;  for  while  I  am  a  beneficiary 
I  am  also  a  prisoner.  I  —  I  have  never  been  a  prisoner 
before.  My  king  has;  but  not  I." 

The  kindness  with  wjiich  that  womanly  hand  had 
dressed  his  wound  scarcely  permitted  the  knight  to  use 
such  a  word  as  "  prisoner."  He  could  hardly  believe 
that  she  and  the  man,  who  was  evidently  her  father, 
could  desire  to  make  him  feel  his  imprisonment  in  this 
cottage  which  had  been  a  hospital  to  him. 


A    GOLDEN  DAY.  253 

"  Oh,"  whispered  he  at  night,  when  Alke  had  almost 
broken  his  heart  by  her  tenderness  and  care,  "  I  wish  I 
knew  the  name  of  these  people  !  Why  do  they  call  each 
other  '  father '  and  l  daughter '  in  my  hearing  ?  What  is 
it  about  that  creature  which  makes  my  heart  love  her? 
Yet  I  do  not  love  her  as  I  love  Astree  !  Would  to 
the  Mother  of  God,  I  had  never  thought  of  killing  her  !  " 
and  then,  with  tears  which  Alke  thought  were  tears  of 
homesickness,  he  would  sob  himself  to  sleep. 

When  morning  came  there  stood  the  fair  child  of 
these  mountains  close  by  his  cot ;  and  once  it  seized 
him,  —  the  thought  that  if  his  own  little  sister  had  lived, 
she  might  have  been  as  sweet  and  beautiful !  Some  day 
he  meant  to  ask  the  father  of  this  girl  how  far  it  was  to 
Turin.  He  had  a  vague  memory  that  once  his  own 
home  was  near  Turin. 

"  But  things  with  me  are  all  so  different  now,"  mused 
he ;  "  and  here  am  I,  a  friend  of  Francis  L,  in  the  home 
of  a  Waldensian  whose  daughter  I  tried  to  pierce  with 
my  dagger  !  " 

These  thoughts  made  the  hours  horrible,  —  more  hor- 
rible as  they  suggested  the  recollection  of  Vian.  Oh, 
how  the  knight  now  began  to  despise  his  own  jealous 
hate  ! 

"  I  cannot  fathom  the  silent,  searching  looks  of  her 
father,"  whispered  the  soldier,  as  the  cottager  once 
turned  his  gaze  from  the  knight  with  a  suddenness  which 
bespoke  a  startled  interest.  "  He  has  eyed  me  with  the 
care  of  an  officer  or  a  student  of  curios ;  "  and  then  the 
knight  smiled,  as  he  saw  the  lovely  woman  piling  to- 
gether the  pieces  of  his  armor,  illustrating  at  every  move- 
ment her  ignorance  and  her  kindliness  of  heart.  "  Poor 
thing  !  "  thought  he,  "  she  has  never  girded  a  knight  as 
Astree  has  done." 

Caspar  Perrin  had  now  endured  this  silence  as  long 
as  was  possible.  His  calculations  were  surely  correct. 


254 


MONK  AND  K'NICHT. 


Alke  had  not  been  let  into  his  secret,  and  now  ther. 
no  time.  A  single  movement  of  the  knight's  hea<l  >o 
matched  a  certain  habitual  movement  of  Alke's  head, 
as  she  stood  by  the  graceful  soldier,  that  old  Count 
Aldani  Neforzo  seemed  to  rise  up  between  them  to 
assure  Caspar. 

"  Sir,"  said  Caspar,  "  you  are  used  to  better  fare  than 
ours,  I  suppose." 

"  There  is  no  fitter  fare  than  starvation  for  a  foe  such 
as  I  have  been,"  replied  the  other,  with  gallantry. 

"Are  you  our  foe?"  inquired  the  cottager,  who 
searched  the  face  with  tireless  eyes. 

The  knight  hung  his  head.  "  I  could  make  a  gift  of 
my  life,  if  it  were  mine,  to  take  from  you  the  memory 
of  a  knight  striking  at  your  child,  —  a  woman.  But  I 
was  consumed  — "  He  was  about  to  say  something  of 
Vian;  but  he  was  knightlier  since  his  jealousy  had  fallen 
into  the  pit  which  it  had  digged  and  found  its  own 
abasement  there. 

"  You  are  a  knight,  sir." 

"Truly  spoken,  as  I  hope.  I  have  longed  for  the 
true  knighthood ; "  and  the  soldier  thought  of  Nouvisset. 

"  Have  you  seen  it  in  this  cottage?  " 

"  Ah,  good  friend  !  you  perplex  me.  If  yonder  woman 
were  but  a  man  —  " 

"  She  would  be  of  the  chosen  chivalry,"  flashed  Caspar, 
instantly. 

The  knight  was  silent,  until  the  cottager  asked, 
"  Is  there  any  chivalry  save  that  which  belongs  to  true 
Christianity?" 

"  None,  none  !  "  answered  the  soldier.  The  eyes, 
so  like  Alke's,  were  as  tearful  as  hers. 

Alke  came  nearer;  and  there  swiftly  p.s  r  the 

soul  of  the  knight  a  feeling  which  melted  down  all  the 
iron  barriers,  and  he  dared  to  say,  '•  If  I  were  a  Pythag- 
orean, as  was  once  the  man  who  smote  me  here,"  — 


A    GOLDEN  DAY.  255 

he  touched  his  wound,  —  "I  should  aver  that  I  had 
been  blessed  in  having  known  your  child  in  some  other 
life." 

The  supreme  moment  had  come,  —  Caspar  knew  it. 
Nothing  was  needed  to  confirm  his  suspicion  that-  these 
two  were  brother  and  sister. 

"  I  think,  Knight,  that  the  other  life  was  the  morning 
of  this." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  mystified  soldier,  who  then  imagined 
that  Vian  had  actually  taught  these  folk  Pythagoreanism. 

"  Sir,"  said  Caspar,  drawing  his  stool  nearer,  as  he 
unloosed  his  wrist- bands,  and  Alke  placed  his  aching  foot 
upon  the  lamb's  skin,  — "  sir,  you  know  not  who  looks 
into  your  eyes  ;  but  I  will  make  sure  of  you  before  I  tell 
you.  Oh,  God  of  memory,  hear  my  prayer  !  " 

The  voice  of  the  cottager  trembled ;  his  eyes  were 
fountains.  Even  Alke  was  unnerved.  The  knight's  white 
face  was  twitching  with  excitement.  Silence  was  hushing 
their  breath,  until  the  eyes  of  the  soldier  saw  before  him 
two  brawny  wrists,  bare  and  brown.  They  were  stretched 
under  his  gaze.  The  arms  of  Caspar  trembled  not. 

What  fastened  the  eyes  of  the  young  knight  upon  those 
white  marks  in  that  brown  skin,  —  the  livid  scars,  — 
sword- wounds  of  long  years  agone,  but  so  plain,  so 
white,  so  memorable  ! 

"Do  you  remember  your  childhood?  "  cried  Caspar. 

"  My  father  !     My  own  father  !     Oh,  God,  is  it  true  ?  " 

"  My  poor  child,  Ami !  Oh,  Ami !  "  The  father's  arms 
held  him  tenderly.  "  And  little  Alke  !  Oh,  my  dear 
children,  my  children ! "  Caspar  said  it  again  and 
again,  as  they  clasped  each  other  in  happy  embrace. 

The  golden-stringed  lyre  was  too  delicate  for  such 
madly  inspiring  strokes.  In  a  few  days  the  young  Barb£ 
Gerard  Pastre  was  praying  at  the  bedside  of  Alke.  The 
momentous  transformations  of  the  preceding  days  had 


256  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

issued  to   Ami   in   a   fevered   brain.     He    had  become 
uncontrollable. 

Now  Caspar  sat  wondering  and  weeping  by  the  side  of 
the  cot  on  which  the  armor  of  the  French  knight  —  his 
own  Ami  —  lay  glittering.     The  bed  by  the  door\va\ 
empty.     Ami  had  escaped  them  in  his  delirium. 

The  last  words  of  characteristic  sanity  which  he  spoke 
to  them  were  these  :  "  I  am  a  saved  sinner  !  The  blood 
of  Jesus  Christ  cleanseth  from  all  sin,  even  from 
jealousy." 

He  had  then  rambled  on  in  his  talk  about  the  Pope 
and  Luther,  and  now  for  two  nights  and  days  the  lame 
father  and  the  faithful  but  exhausted  Alke  had  prayed  in 
vain  for  Ami's  return. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

"  UBI   PAPA,    UBI   ROMA." 
IMP  •  C^SAR  •  KAROLVS  •  V  •  AVG  • 

BONONIAM    •    DlVERTENS 

IMPERII  •  INSIGNIA 

A  •  CLEMENTE  •  PAPA  •  VII  •  RECEPTVRVS 
Hie  •  QUOQUE  •  SANCTITATIS  •  ET  •  BONARUM  •  ARTIUM  • 

DOMICILIUM  •  SUCCESSIT 
SINGVLA  •  PERLVSTRANS  •  VNA  •  ET  •  SVSPICIENS. 

SUCH  is  the  record  deeply  graven  on  a  single  fine  stone 
which  is  inserted  within  the  strong  wall  of  the  large 
dormitory  of  the  monastery  of  San  Michele  in  Bosco. 
Three  and  a  half  centuries  have  gone  ;  but  nothing  of  in- 
terest in  the  conduct,  or  of  significance  in  the  purposes 
of  Emperor  Charles  V.  has  detached  itself  from  that  25th 
of  February,  1530,  on  which  this  powerful  ruler  received 
imperial  coronation  at  the  hands  of  the  Pope.  Signifi- 
cant as  was  his  election  on  June  18,  1519,  as  the  suc- 
cessor of  Charlemagne,  or  the  coronation  at  Aachen,  by 
the  Archbishop  of  Cologne,  Oct.  23,  1520,  each  was 
naturally  surpassed  by  the  event  at  Bologna,  when  the  King 
of  the  Romans  and  of  Germany  saw  Clement  VII.  about 
to  invest  him  with  the  world's  richest  diadem. 

Charles  V.  had  had  an  uneasy  mastery.  Francis  I.  was 
known  to  him  as  a  courtly  gentleman  and  a  royal  liar. 

VOL.  ir.  —  17 


258  MOW  AND  KXIC.HT. 

He  had  missed  the  discovery  of  tin-  meaning  of  those 
energies  which  had  been  operating  in  the  Renaissance, 
while  he  played  with  the  eddies  in  tin-  stream.  He  had 
failed  to  comprehend  the  strength  of  the  religion 
heaval  which  at  his  own  city  and  in  his  own  court  had 
already  made  his  affairs  jostle  uneasily.  He  had  proven 
himself  a  good  foil  for  the  intellect  of  Charles  until  he  was 
made  his  prisoner  and  slave  ;  and  the  Peace  of  Cambray 
now  admitted  the  French  Sovereign  into  only  an  hour's 
nervous  friendship. 

Henry  VIII.  was  the  only  monarch  whom  Charles 
learned  to  respect,  beca*.:  ra\  him.     I  faa  ted,  as 

he  seemed  to  be,  by  the  genius  of  Wolsey,  even  he  was 
often  manageable.     The  power  of  any  alli.mrc  lx 
the  English  King  and  the  Sovereign  of  in  the  Ix>w 

Countries  lay  in  tin- ir  apparently  1   publicly  ap- 

plauded purpose  of  serving  the  Holy  Father,  and  rescuing 
him  out  of  the  grip  of  him  who  had   made   Italy 
beneath  the  Imperial  arms.     That  purpose  seemed  for- 
gotten.    Henry's  scheme  for  a  divorce  from  Katherine 
of  Arragon,  it  appeared,  could  not  but  complicate  his  pol- 
icies and  embarrass  his  ambitions  as  a  sovereign.     Yet 
Katherine's  nephew,  Charles  V.,  was  not  blind  toth 
that  it  might  lead  to  an  alliance  against  the   Imperial 
standard. 

Charles  could  not  forget  the  negotiations  at  Amiens  be- 
tween Cardinal  Wolsey  and  Francis  I.  That  confed- 
whatever  had  happened  to  the  proposed  marriage  of  Or- 
leans and  the  princess,  or  to  Henry's  <  (moderate  but  for- 
mal renunciation  of  the  French  rrown,  had  a  strange 
vitality.  True,  by  relaxing  somewhat  of  the  severity  of 
the  treaty  of  Madrid,  he  had  not  won  either  I 
Henry.  This  had  simply  irritated  the  emperor,  and  war 
instead  of  a  royal  duel  had  come.  Rome  had  been  va- 
cated; Naples  besieged;  and  the  Pope  had  acknowl- 
edged Francis  I.  as  his  emancipator.  While  Henry  VIII. 


"  UBI  PAPA,  UBI  ROMA:'  259 

had  been  unable  to  marshal  England  against  him  in  the 
Low  Countries,  and  Lautrec  could  not  hold  the  French 
army  because  he  failed  to  receive  the  support  of  his  mon- 
arch, and  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  had  revolted  from  a  king 
who  gave  him  compliments  and  an  insulting  court,  at- 
taching himself  to  the  emperor  who  sent  him  to  the  re- 
lief of  Naples,  —  all  ending  in  disaster  to  France,  the 
capture  of  Genoa,  and  the  rout  of  the  French  army  un- 
der Saint- Pol,  —  it  was  still  evident  to  the  wary  Charles 
that  jealousy  of  the  Imperial  standards  was  not  humili- 
ated either  in  France  or  England. 

The  Peace  of  Cambray  had  beneath  it  the  empty  treas- 
ury of  the  emperor  and  the  weariness  of  the  Spaniards. 
The  emperor  knew  the  Pope  to  be  negotiating  with  both 
himself  and  the  French  King.  Two  women,  even  though 
one  was  the  royal  aunt  of  Charles,  and  the  other  was  the 
mother  of  Francis,  could  not  make  such  a  protesting 
friendship  inviolable.  Even  his  treaty  of  June  20,  1529, 
with  the  Pope,  was  unsatisfactory.  The  white  steed  which 
his  Holiness  rode,  and  then  sent  to  the  Imperial  com- 
mander, was  not  so  burdened  with  testimonials  of  absolu- 
tion for  all  who  had  plundered  Rome,  or  with  offers  of 
ecclesiastical  revenues,  that  he  might  not  run  away  and 
find  a  road  to  the  stables  of  the  Supreme  Pontiff. 

Francis  I.  had  sacrificed  everything  but  his  restless  am- 
bition and  his  facility  at  lying.  Henry  VIII.  was  in  un- 
interrupted communication  with  him.  The  Pope  had 
chatted  with  Henry's  ambassador  when  the  former  was 
a  prisoner  of  Charles  V.  at  Castle  St.  Angelo,  and  had 
listened  to  the  king's  desire  for  a  divorce  from  the  em- 
peror's aunt.  Only  the  threats  and  promises  of  Charles 
V.  had  made  his  Holiness  forget  his  obligation  to  serve 
the  English  monarch.  Above  all  these  in  peril  born  of 
the  fears  of  the  army,  were  the  Turk  whose  four  weeks' 
siege  of  Vienna  Charles  had  not  forgotten,  and  the  grow- 
ing movement  of  the  Reformers,  whose  progress  Pope  and 


26o  MONK'  AND  KNIGHT. 

ruler  had  affected  to  despise,  but  which  they  now  saw 
must  be  met  with  a  vigorous  hand. 

Nothing  was,  therefore,  so  natural  as  a  desire  for  an 
alliance  with  the  Pope,  whom  he  had  incarcerated  and 
whose  city  he  had  sacked.  Charles  remembered  that  his 
grandsire  Maximilian,  at  critical  moments  which  he  had 
not  anticipated,  repented  that  he  had  not  obtained  papal 
coronation.  Enraged  at  Henry  VIII.,  distrustful  of  Fran- 
cis I.,  fearful  of  a  coalition  of  his  foes,  and  bent  on  the 
suppression  of  the  Reformation,  he  would  meet  Clement 
VII.  at  Bologna  as  the  King  of  France  met  Leo  X.  at  the 
same  place  after  the  battle  of  Marignano. 

Charles  V.  was  ready  to  depart.  Andrea  Doria,  the 
rebel  against  the  French  Sovereign,  should  command  the 
flag-ship. 

While  the  emperor  en  route  was  entertaining  the  hus- 
band of  Lucretia  Borgia,  the  Duke  of  Ferrara,  at  Reggio, 
Clement  VII.  was  approaching  Bologna.  Charles  had 
made  a  tour  of  magnificence.  Attended  by  day  by  splen- 
didly clothed  men  of  State  and  the  army,  sleeping  in  pal- 
aces at  night,  received  by  cavalcades  of  cardinals,  visited 
by  ambassadors  from  the  French  King,  his  journey  was 
interrupted  only  that  he  might  be  informed  that  his  chan- 
cellor had  been  honored  by  the  Pope,  or  that  the  gracious 
Pontiff  had  come  near  to  Bologna ;  and  on  the  4th  of 
November,  he  halted  at  the  convent  of  the  Italian  broth- 
ers of  the  rule  of  Saint  Bruno,  close  to  the  Certosa,  outside 
the  walls  of  the  city.  On  one  of  its  heavy  stones  to-day 
this  record  abides  :  — 

A  PERPHTVA  MEMORIA 

CARLO  V  IMPERATORE 

PER  ESSERE  CORONATO  IN  BOLOGNA 

Si  TRATTENNE 
IN  QVESTA  ABITAZIONB 

lL    Dl    IV    XoVEMBRB 

AN.  MhXXVlII. 


«UBI  PAPA,  UBI  ROMA:*  261 

As  the  emperor  neared  the  convent,  swiftly  as  a  flash 
from  the  sun  sped  an  arrow  in  dangerous  proximity  to 
his  head. 

The  Imperial  conqueror  cried  out :  "  Have  I  no  safety 
here?" 

"The  safety  of  the  Holy  Church,  the  safety  of  all 
Italy  !  "  replied  one  of  the  astonished  cardinals  who  had 
attended  his  Majesty  from  Modena.  He  had  not  seen 
the  arrow ;  indeed,  it  had  escaped  the  discovery  of  all  but 
the  emperor.  For  him  it  was  intended  ;  for  his  heart  its 
poisonous  point  had  been  prepared.  The  nervousness  of 
the  sovereign  did  not  abate  as  the  entire  body  of  white- 
robed  priests  protested  that  such  an  occurrence  was  al- 
most impossible.  The  illustrious  companions  of  Charles 
V.  made  every  search ;  attendants  hastened  to  discover 
the  guilty  wretch ;  and  the  monarch  was  assured  of  his 
safety. 

One  of  his  company,  however,  ventured  to  utter  his 
distrust  of  the  monks. 

"  It  could  not  have  been  a  brother  who  had  heard  that 
mellifluous  voice,"  remarked  one  of  the  monks,  who,  with 
many  others,  had  spoken  concerning  the  pleasing  and 
quiet  tones  of  a  man  whom  all  Italy  had  hitherto  regarded 
with  terror. 

"  It  may  have  been  a  shot  from  one  who  saw  that  vil- 
lanous  underjaw  and  those  protruding  lips,"  whispered 
another,  who  was  one  of  a  larger  number  who  had  deter- 
mined that  no  suavity  of  manner  or  gentleness  of  tone 
should  lead  them  to  forget  that  Charles  had  plundered 
Rome  and  made  the  Pontiff  a  captive. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  the  emperor  walked  with  Louis 
d'Avila,  the  historian,  admiring  the  pictures  and  marbles 
with  which  popes  and  kings  had  enriched  the  sacred 
house,  it  was  all  explained. 

A  young  man,  suffering  with  a  vicious  sort  of ,  madness, 
evidently  the  result  of  disease,  had  been  found  near  the 


262  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

convent.  A  bow,  and  a  quiver  lacking  a  single  arrow,  we  re- 
discovered with  him  :  and  he  chattered  incoherently  in 
French  about  that  startling  shot.  The  pious  and  sym- 
pathetic monks,  touched  at  first  by  the  wretchedness  of 
his  condition,  then  becoming  wildly  superstitious  con- 
cerning his  insanity,  had  sought  to  feed  him ;  then  they 
had  fled  from  him.  He  had  been  last  seen  nmning  to- 
ward the  banks  of  the  Savena,  which  wa-*  nearly  a  mile 
away. 

One  of  the  imaginative  brothers  who  longed  to  be  rid 
of  unpleasant  responsibilities,  invented  the  story  that  the 
madman  leaped  into  the  stream  and  was  drowned. 
Another,  in  sober  truth,  declared  that  his  face  was  beau- 
tiful ;  and  he  was  supported  by  one  of  the  attendants  of 
the  emperor  when  he  averred  that  he  possessed  a  valu- 
able ring  bearing  the  arms  of  Pope  Leo  X.  and  holding 
an  emerald.  Both  grew  excited  when  they  asserted 
they  had  seen  him  before,  —  one  in  Bologna,  the  other  in 
Florence. 

At  length  the  discharged  arrow  was  found.  Its  point 
was  poisoned.  The  emperor  himself  trembled  when  he 
read  the  inscription  written  plainly  on  a  bit  of  parchment 
and  attached  to  it,  — 

"  Remember  the  Diet  of  Worms  !  Forget  not  Katherine 
of  Arragon  !  Be  mindful  of  the  Turk  !  " 

He  read  it  again,  and  examined  the  missile.  It  seemed 
to  his  Majesty  that  all  the  problems  of  his  life  met  in  that 
arrow.  They  were  loaded  with  disaster ;  yet  it  had  missed 
him.  What  would  have  unmanned  either  of  his  royal 
antagonists  served  to  solidify  the  thought  of  Charles  V. 
Death  had  been  escaped;  he  must  be  in  Bologna  on 
the  morrow. 

Whence  came  the  unexpected  stranger? 
For  more  than  a  week  the  maniac  had  entertained  and 
eluded  the  officers  of  Bologna.     No  one  knew  his  name, 


"  UBI  PAPA,  UBI  ROMA:'  263 

the  hour  of  his  arrival,  the  meaning  of  his  movements,  or 
the  reason  of  his  sudden  disappearance.  He  had  been 
looked  upon  only  as  a  pitiful  beggar  who  bewildered  all 
who  beheld  him  by  the  remarkable  combination  of  schol- 
arly sanity  and  vicious  insanity  which  he  furnished.  He 
had  been  in  prison  and  out  of  prison ;  but  the  city  was 
so  interested  in  the  pageant  about  to  occur,  so  crowded 
had  become  every  street,  and  so  busy  was  every  official, 
that  his  career  in  Bologna  had  at  length  come  to  be  un- 
noticed. Thieves  and  cut-throats,  however,  had  hunted 
in  vain  for  the  wearer  of  the  emerald  ring ;  an  agent  of  a 
ducal  family  had  sought  to  purchase  it  of  the  impecuni- 
ous stranger ;  but  he  had  escaped  them  all.  Every  street 
in  Bologna  seemed  familiar  to  him  ;  and  he  had  related 
to  a  companion  in  penury  the  occurrences  of  the  visit  of 
Francis  I.  to  Pope  Leo  X.  at  Bologna,  with  astonishing 
accuracy  of  detail.  Flashes  of  reason  illumined  the  mid- 
night of  his  mind,  as  the  lightning  plays  upon  the  black- 
ness of  the  storm.  The  crowded  city,  with  its  loquacious 
and  excited  visitors  intent  on  beholding  such  another 
spectacle  as  had  fascinated  Bolognese  conversation  since 
the  appearance  of  Francis  I.,  let  him  pursue  his  way, 
although  his  fits  of  madness  would  have  indicated  that  his 
vicious  schemes  might  be  carried  into  effect  at  any  mo- 
ment. His  ragged  associates  laughed  when  he  declared 
that  he  would  kill  Pope  Clement  VII. ;  and  the  desperate 
bloodthirstiness  of  his  plans  only  proved  to  them  that  he 
was  harmless. 

On  the  morning  of  October  23  he  appeared  clad  in 
elegant  garments.  His  bedfellow  had  been  a  successful 
robber,  and  was  a  Spanish  fugitive.  With  him  a  bargain 
had  been  made  for  the  use  of  some  coveted  garments  for 
an  indefinite  period.  The  ring  was  accepted  as  a  pawn, 
and  the  thief  was  delighted. 

Adding  his  perfect  mastery  of  the  language  to  the 
impression  made  by  the  bright,  rich  clothing,  the  mad- 


264  MONK'  A\n    KXK.IfT. 

man  conceived  himself  able  to  find  a  way  into  the 
palaces  and  associations  which  were  so  soon  to  welcome 
the  Supreme  Pontiff. 

As  with  such  subtlety  and  intelligence  he  pursued  his 
aims,  the  experience  of  a  madman  yielded  to  the  sober 
tactics  of  wit.     His  physical  conditi 
and  his  madness  was  under  control.    When  he  felt  the  fit 
returning,  he  enforced  silence  upon  his  tongue  and 
himself  at  a  distance  from  hi~  With  superb  self- 

master)',  his  plan  was  consummated. 

The  hour  at  length  came  when  the  Holy  Father 
to  enter  the  city.     The  insane  man  stood  before  the 
guard. 

"  He  is  a  Spaniard,  —  an  emissary  of  Charles  V.. 
of  the  Romans  and  of  Germany,"  cried  one  of  the  guard 
to  another  who  was  seeking  to  detain  the  stranger. 

The  madman  thanked  him  in  excellent  phrase. 

"That  may  be  a  Spaniard,"  quoth  the  irritated  guard, 
"but  he  looks  every  inch  a  Frenchman." 

"  Nay,  a  child  of  our  own  Italy  :  "  interrupted  a  third, 
who  detected  the  Italian  blood  mount  to  the  strat 
cheeks  as  he  went  a\\ 

"That  man  I  have  seen  in  Bologna,  ere  this,"  said 
the  first.  "And  he  is  enough  like  the  beautiful  youth 
who  came  and  went  with  the  French  Sovereign  when  he 
met  Leo  X.  in  our  city,  —  like  enough  to  him," —  and 
he  gazed  upon  the  knightly  form  and  abundant  sunny 
hair,  totally  forgetful  to  regard  the  changes  which  inter- 
vening years  must  have  made,  —  "  like  enough  to  that 
boy  to  be  his  father !  " 

The  old  guard  shook  his  wise  head,  and  congratulated 
himself  upon  an  existence  on  earth  so  long  that  he  would 
be  able  to  say, "  I  have  seen  two  Popes  receive  two  kings 
in  Bologna." 

"  His  language  and  his  dress  are  of  Spain.  Let  us  not 
annoy  the  forerunner  of  the  emperor  !  "  added  an  aged 


"  UBI  PAPA,    UBI  ROMA."  26$ 

Bolognese  soldier,  who  had  felt  the  weight  of  Charles  V.'s 
sword  at  Rome,  and  with  a  wise  terror  thought  of  any 
interference  with  an  Imperial  representative. 

The  stranger  hurried  through  the  street,  stopping  not 
to  behold  the  gleaming  marble  arcades  or  the  noble  ter- 
races, anxious  only  to  join  in  the  magnificence  of  the 
entry  itself.  He  had  already  slept  in  rags  under  the 
shadow  of  the  ancient  university  buildings,  and  starved 
under  the  front  of  famous  palaces,  while  masters  of  juris- 
prudence and  eminent  poets  and  illustrious  scholars  had 
passed  by.  Why  should  he  now  pause  before  a  leaning 
tower  or  an  exquisitely  chiselled  marble  ?  He  waited  but 
for  an  instant  in  the  shadow  of  the  elegant  Carisenda ; 
and  there  he  repeated  the  words  of  Dante,  in  which  it 
has  passed  into  imperishable  literature,  — 

"  As  seems  the  Carisenda  to  behold 
Beneath  the  leaning  side,  when  goes  a  cloud 
Above  it  so  that  opposite  it  hangs ; 
Such  did  Antaeus  seem  to  me,  who  stood 
Watching  to  see  him  stoop,  and  then  it  was 
I  could  have  wished  to  go  some  other  way." 

And  then  he  said,  as  he  cast  a  furtive  glance  about  him, 
"  Oh,  Dante,  if  thy  prophecy  concerning  the  Holy 
Church  is  realized,  how  like  a  toy  will  appear  yonder 
graceful  Asinelli !  But,"  he  added,  on  suddenly  seeing 
a  man  nearing  the  spot,  "  I  am  a  Spanish  gentleman, 
a  friend  of  Charles  V.,  —  his  emissary,  if  necessity  shall 
require.  Ha,  ha  !  I  must  not  think  of  Dante  and  the 
Church.  I  shall  be  mad  again,  —  yes,  mad  !  Oh  God, 
this  gloom  !  it  thickens.  I  cannot  kill  the  Pope,  —  no, 
not  the  Pope.  I  will  kill  the  Emperor !  Ha,  ha  !  He 
would  kill  Luther  if  he  had  him  again  at  the  Diet  of 
Worms.  Yes,  I  will  kill  Charles.  Ha  !  Oh,  my  bow  !  my 
dagger  !  The  saints  —  ha,  ha  !  —  the  saints  defend  the 
King  of  the  Romans  and  of  Germany  !  " 

In  his  returning  madness  he  fled  to  the  place  of  con- 


MOXK  A\D  KMG1IT. 

cealment  where  the  sleeping  outlaw  held  the  ring  and 
the  rags  which  he  had  forsaken.  In  an  hour  he  had 
changed  his  garments,  forgotten  all  about  the  entry  of 
the  Pontiff  Clement  VII.,  and  lay  panting  with  feverish 
excitement  near  the  wall  of  the  convent  outside  the  de- 
fences of  Bologna.  He  had  found  the  bow  and  a  quiver 
full  of  arrows,  which,  days  ago,  he  had  poisoned  ;  and 
living  on  a  morsel  of  food,  he  had  awaited  for  ten 
the  arrival-  of  the  emperor. 

The  moment  came.  As  he  gazed  upon  his  Majesty, 
the  bow-string  twanged ;  that  arrow  gleamed  through 
the  air. 

On  the  5th  of  November  the  king  entered  Bologna. 
He  had  given  orders  that  the  arrow  should  be  brought 
with  his  armor ;  and  as  a  significant  memorial  of  the  jour- 
ney, he  confided  it  to  the  guardianship  of  no  less  a  per- 
son than  Henry,  Count  of  Nassau,  High  Chamberlain. 
Little  did  Charles  V.  dream  that  some  of  the  ideas  which 
attached  to  that  arrow  would  make  the  name  Nassau 
impregnable  against  oppression,  when  the  nephew  of  that 
chamberlain  should  be  known  as  William  the  Silent. 

As  little  did  the  emperor  dream  that  the  interesting 
personage  whom  he  now  noticed  as  he  entered  the  city, 
and  took  to  be  an  elegantly  attired  Spaniard,  was  the 
madman  who  had  sought  his  life  near  the  convent  on 
the  day  before. 

There  stood  the  excellently  formed  figure,  as  the 
emperor  halted  at  the  gateway.  \\  ith  unfrenzied  eye, 
he  looked  upon  Charles  V.  as  he  alighted  from  his  white 
charger  and  mounted  a  dark  bay  genet.  If  any  had 
questioned  his  presence,  the  stranger  had  replied  like 
a  knight  and  in  faultless  language. 

The  lucid  hours  of  sanity  had  come  again.  He  was 
master  of  himself;  and  he  proposed  to  participate  in 
these  ceremonies.  He  had  again  donned  the  showy 


"  UBI  PAPA,    UBI  ROMA."  267 

garments  of  a  Spaniard,  and  was  more  at  ease  with 
kings  than  with  ordinary  thieves  and  beggars.  His 
every  movement  or  attitude  was  knightly. 

The  gate  of  San  Felice  had  hardly  opened,  when  an  eye 
into  which  he  had  first  looked  years  before,  burned  upon 
him  with  glowing  recognition.  Ten  minutes  later,  as  the 
cavalcade  halte'd,  and  the  rich  gold  brocade  with  which 
the  emperor's  genet  was  almost  covered  was  arranged  to 
hold  more  securely  the  damascened  breastplates,  a  hand 
was  affectionately  laid  upon  the  madman's  shoulder. 
He  trembled. 

The  voice  shook :  "  Ami,  Ami !  what  do  you  here  ? 
By  all  the  saints  —  or  is  it  his  ghost?  Ami!" 

At  last  he  had  been  discovered,  recognized,  called 
by  name.  He  was  stupefied  by  the  sounds.  "  Ami !  " 
He  had  not  heard  his  name  since  the  awful  moment 
when  in  the  desolated  home  of  his  father,  Caspar  Perrin, 
his  fever  raged  like  a  hell  and  the  delirium  came  upon 
him.  Life  and  biography  were  but  a  blank  page  until 
he  discovered  himself  a  wretched  beggar  in  the  streets 
of  Bologna,  —  a  city  which  he  had  remembered  with 
dizzying  reflections  when  he  looked  at  the  arms  of 
Leo  X.  on  his  ring. 

Ami's  brain  reeled  with  the  shock  attending  the 
pronunciation  of  his  name. 

"  Ami,  Ami !  "  again  said  the  voice,  —  a  cry  suppressed 
in  a  whisper.  The  poor  man  staggered.  Without  lifting 
his  eyes  from  the  helmet  which  the  emperor  had  taken 
off  as  he  kissed  the  crucifix  which  Cardinal  Campeggio 
held  to  the  royal  lips,  the  discovered  Ami  turned  to  walk 
away  with  his  ardent  companion. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

STEPS   Okl'l  KKI.    AMU* 

"  The  soothing  thoughts  which  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering." 

THE  soul  of  the  young  man  in  the  Spanish  garb  was 
a  whirlpool.  Memories,  hopes,  emotions  ot 
and  of  hate,  feelings  of  chagrin  and  of  despair.  swirlol 
in  noisy  tumult  in  his  half  <  ra/ed  brain.  A  hundred 
pictures  of  the  mind  suffused  with  a  weird  and  melan- 
choly light  were  torn  to  pieces  and  thrown  about  in  con- 
fusion. He  had  seen  faces  that  day  which  recalled  his 
whole  past  as  the  friend  of  Fran«  i>  I.  and  a  person  of 
distinction  at  the  court.  Here  was  a  face,  —  the  face  sure 
to  make  everything  incomprehensible. 

There,  an  hour  before  these  eyes  had  looked  upon 
him.  Ami  had  fancied  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  in  that 
long  retinue  of  gallant  nobles  and  accoutred  knights 
from  Spain,  Sicily,  and  the  Netherla 

What  strange  phantasy  could  it  be  ?  Ah  !  now  it  could 
not  be  a  phantasy. 

"  Andrea  Doria,"  persisted  Ami,  "  was  the  chief  ally 
of  my  royal  friend  Francis  I.  Andrea  Doria  in  this  pro- 
cession ?  Andrea  Doria  with  the  light  horsemen,  —  three 
hundred  in  blazing  red  uniform,  —  what  can  it  mean? 
Andrea  Doria  close  to  Antonio  de  I>eyva  ?  What  !  the 
Admiral  was  the  ally  of  France  when  Antonio  tore  from 


STEPS  ORDERED  AMID   CONFUSION.         269 

Francis  I.  a  whole  division  with  its  leader,  on  the  field 
of  Pavia  ! " 

Surely  the  dreadful  mania  was  coming  again  in  a  new 
form.  "  Andrea  Doria  followed  by  Bolognese  youths,  clad 
in  velvet,  riding  on  Turkish  horses,  or  running  at  the  side 
of  Charles  V.,  as  he  rode  beneath  a  canopy  of  gold,  his 
armor  of  steel  and  gold  glittering  like  a  flame,  and  the 
eagle-crest  shining  upon  his  helmet ! "  —  it  was  the 
dream  of  the  maniac  Ami  knew  himself  to  be. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  looked,  as  he  departed.  He 
saw  only  the  fragments  of  the  crowd,  —  three  thousand 
German  foot,  ten'  pieces  of  artillery,  three  thousand 
Spanish  soldiers,  and  —  Andrea  Doria  in  the  midst  near 
the  emperor  !  Old  gout-stricken  Antonio  de  Leyva  borne 
in  a  chair,  commander-in-chief ;  and  Admiral  Andrea 
Doria  — 

"  Oh,  cursed  malady  !  "  cried  Ami,  as  the  newly  found 
companion  dragged  him  away. 

There  was  no  reply ;  the  sick  man  stumbled  along  as 
far  as  possible,  until  at  length  he  lay  exhausted  upon  the 
ground. 

Every  remedy  which  love  could  suggest  or  pity  ima- 
gine was  applied.  The  crowd  heeded  not,  but  like  a  flood 
swept  on.  Here  and  there  a  streamlet  separated  itself 
from  the  main  currents  and  worked  its  way  to  this  place 
of  interest. 

"  A  Spaniard  of  the  emperor's  train  !  "  said  a  wise- 
acre, as  he  walked  on.  "  He  has  found  purgatory  in 
Bologna." 

The  eyes  of  Ami  slowly  opened.  He  riveted  their 
gaze  upon  his  solitary  companion  ;  for  the  shouts  of  the 
crowd  had  attracted  every  one  away  from  the  spot  ex- 
cept this  loved  friend  of  other  days.  Up  into  his  face 
Ami  looked  with  piteous  emotion.  Tears  fell  upon 
Ami's  sunny  hair  from  eyes  which  had  waited  un- 
weariedly  for  a  smile  of  recognition.  What  cared  this 


2/0 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 


man  that  yonder  splendid  pageant  had  occurred  without 
his  presence?  A  kinglier  power  than  Charles  V.  ruled 
his  heart. 

Love,  which  does  not  wait  to  comprehend  the  crisis,  — 
love  knew  that  the  moment  for  complete  devotion  had 
come ;  and  in  a  human  form  love  stood  heroic,  and  of 
all  else  save  its  masterful  duty  forgetful. 

The  ashy  lips  of  Ami  moved.  The  eager  ears  which 
had  just  heard  the  huzzas  of  the  multitude  were  close  to 
the  trembling  tongue ;  and  kneeling  upon  the  very  soil 
where  years  before  stood  Ami,  as  the  proudest  young 
knight  of  France,  his  friend  heard  the  longed-for 
whisper,  — 

"  Francesco  !  It  is  Francesco  !  In  the  name  of  Jesus 
Christ,  I  thank  —  Francesco,  do  not  betray  me  ! " 

The  storm-tossed  Ami  had  found  succor  in  a  fellow- 
sailor  on  life's  unquiet  sea,  —  a  sailor  whose  stronger 
craft  might  seize  his  and  condemn  him  as  a  pirate.  But 
Ami  was  safe.  Francesco  de  Robo  loved  the  Church, 
but  not  the  Sovereign  of  France.  He  could  not  betray 
Ami,  even  for  love  of  the  Church. 

Since  these  two  men  had  met  as  fellow- servants  to  his 
Majesty  Francis  I.,  great  changes  had  come  to  both. 
At  Chilly  the  youths  had  handled  the  swords  and  books 
of  old  Nouvisset ;  and  the  young  Italian  had  grown  into 
such  favor  with  the  king  that  he  had  been  granted,  at  his 
own  desire,  a  position  of  peculiar  responsibility  with 
Admiral  Andrea  Doria.  In  all  the  tempests  into  which 
Ami's  conscience  had  gone,  Francesco  had  been  sym- 
pathetic and  true.  Oh,  how  those  days  of  storm  and 
shine,  of  brilliant  wickedness  and  struggling  hope,  came 
back  upon  them,  as  with  fast- flowing  tears  they  embraced 
as  restored  lovers ! 

"  Francesco,"  whispered  Ami  again,  with  a  choking 
sob  in  his  throat,  — "Francesco,  tell  me,  oh,  tell  me  at 
once  !  Where  is  my  —  " 


STEPS  ORDERED  AMID   CONFUSION-.         2/1 

He  faltered ;  but  the  tongue  of  eloquent  friendship 
spoke  the  dear  word  for  Ami,  —  "  Astr£e." 

Tears  fell  upon  Ami's  cheek  from  the  eyes  of  Francesco, 
as  he  tried  to  kiss  the  forehead  behind  whose  full  beauty 
was  a  living  agony.  "  I  will  tell  you  all,  Ami,  when  you 
are  in  a  condition  to  hear  sweet  news.  The  saints 
prosper  your  returning  strength  !  " 

"  In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ !  "  slowly  responded  Ami. 

Francesco  was  not  oblivious  that  this  phrase  had  been 
.uttered  by  Ami  but  a  moment  before,  and  that  it  might 
denote  an  unimagined  transformation.  He  knew  it  was 
not  the  hour  for  theological  conversation.  Louise  of 
Savoy  and  Louis  de  Berquin  seemed  to  be  near,  each 
looking  scorn  at  the  other ;  but  Francesco  was  silent. 

As  Ami  and  Francesco  waited  alone  for  weakness  to 
become  strength,  the  huge  pageant  about  Charles  V. 
moved  on.  It  had  gone  forward,  leaving  Francesco  in  a 
new  life.  Of  all  else  he  had  made  sacrifice  to  his  love 
for  Ami,  whose  condition  perplexed  him.  A  little  wine 
and  a  short  hour  of  sleep  had  so  refreshed  Ami,  however, 
that  soon  Francesco  had  little  difficulty  in  leading  him  to 
comfortable  lodgings,  where  he  left  him,  promising  to 
return  as  soon  as  he  could  beg  leave  of  absence  from  the 
Admiral  Andrea  Doria. 

With  a  patience  supported  by  affection  and  transfigured 
by  hope.  Ami  awaited  Francesco's  return.  The  latter  had 
found  his  way  back  into  the  centre  of  the  moving  spec- 
tacle, had  paid  due  homage  to  the  powerful  admiral,  and 
found  it  possible  to  pass  the  night  with  Ami. 

"  Oh,"  said  Francesco,  "  this  ostentatious  glitter  can- 
not miss  me.  I  shall  go  where  my  life  has  some  signifi- 
cance, where  the  crisis  is  genuine." 

Fleet  indeed  were  his  feet,  but  fleeter  still  were  the 
two  tongues  which  that  night  related  almost  a  complete 
biography  of  two  souls.  Ami  had  listened  for  so  long  a 
time  for  the  sound  of  Francesco's  footsteps,  he  was  so 


272  MU.\  A    .-I..W   A'A'/CV//' 

weak  and  fearful  of  a  return  of  his  mal.i 
Francesco  entered  he  could  hear  the  feeble  voice  o: 
uttering  but  two  wor 

The  staggering  intelle  eye  upon 

these  two  shining  lights  i:  k  wander  i-  knew 

that  each  point  of  glory  was  within  sight  of  the  other  : 
"Francesco  — 

Not  long  did  the  conversation  tarry  with  Andr 
political  position.     Ami  kneu 
the  rupture.     At  length  the  schemes  of  1 
and  Duprat  had  united  with   repeatt  i   the 

duplicity  of  the  king  ;  Savona  had  been  f.  >r 
Doria's  beloved  Genoa  was  robbed  of  1. 
having  revolted,   he  was  about  to  be  arreste 
minions  of  a  king  to  whom  he  had  gi\ 
service,  when  he  fled,  sent  back  the  collar  of  St.  M 
to  France,  and  joined  the  Impcr  .rd. 

"  Of  course,'  ncesco,  who  knew  how  earnestly 

the  court  strove  to  keep  the   intelligence  from  Ami  while 
he  was  arming  himself  to  kill  \V.i'.  ,  — "  of  < 

^rlad  to  follow  him  as  soon  as  I  could.  esco's 

lofty  manner  reminded  Ami  of  Amln  as  he  had 

seen  him  commanding  the  gall- 

Civita  Vecchia.  nearly  four  years  before  more 

proud  when  he  drove  tl, 

clined  to  become  its  doge.  is  too  gr 

be  the  sen-ant  even  of  Charles  V." 

"  But  he  is  at  present  in  the  procession  of 
mused  Ami,  not  quite  sure  of  the  fa<  it  is  all  so 

mysterious       You  arc  still   his  compani<>  csco? 

Yes ;  it  is  confusing  to  me.  him  ;  you  did 

not  love  the  king.  —  Lo 

oh,  Francesco,  I  loved  Astre'e  !      I  -  t  Andre.i  Doria  follow 
Satan  or  Saint  Paul,  I  am  strong  enough  now.     A 
—  Oh,  that  awful  pain  is  with  me  again  !  —  " 

Ami's  head  was  in  one  of  the  loving  palms  of  I 


STEPS  ORDERED   AMID   CONFUSION.         2/3 

cesco ;  while  the  young  Italian  stroked  the  burning  brow 
with  the  other.  It  soothed  his  soul :  and  Ami  slept 
again,  the  lips  moving  now  and  then  :  "  Francesco  — 
Astre"e  !  Francesco  —  Astree  !  " 

If  Francesco  had  been  a  student  of  mental  physiology, 
and  had  been  familiar  with  all  the  labyrinthine  roadways 
in  Ami's  disordered  brain,  knowing  each  byway  and  the 
delicate  strength  of  each  bridge  beneath  which  eddied 
such  tangled  currents,  he  could  not  have  more  success- 
fully pursued  his  task  of  leading  into  the  soul  of  his  sick 
friend  the  long  trains  of  information  concerning  events 
which  had  happened  since  they  parted  in  Paris,  on  the 
day  when  Ami  went  forth  to  cement  the  friendship  of 
pope  and  king  in  Waldensian  blood.  Love  tested  every 
nerve,  and  love  weighed  every  sentence  before  a  word 
was  spoken.  The  result  was  that  Francesco  had  soon 
told  him  of  the  feelings  of  Francis  I.  and  his  court  at  the 
turn  things  had  taken  with  the  cohort  which  Ami  had 
led  to  La  Torre ;  the  certainty  with  which  the  king  be- 
lieved that  Ami  had  been  killed ;  the  endless  prayers 
which  had  been  bargained  for  that  his  soul  might  have 
repose ;  the  haughty  exhibitions  of  sorrow  on  the  part  of 
Louise  of  Savoy  ;  the  grief  of  the  Queen  of  Navarre  ;  and 
the  theory  of  many  of  Ami's  friends  that  the  knights  had 
been  careless  in  abandoning  him,  though  they  thought  he 
had  been  mortally  wounded,  in  a  Waldensian's  cottage. 

"  I  could  sleep  now,"  he  said,  "  if  I  knew  that  the 
anguish  of  another  did  not  break  her  heart.  Tell  me, 
does  my  Astre"e  live?  " 

"  Astree,"  responded  Francesco,  with  a  sympathy  in 
his  tone  which  seemed  to  feel  the  awful  strain  within 
the  sick  man's  spirit,  with  a  firmness  of  knowledge  which 
instinctively  realized  that  a  quiver  in  his  voice  would  start  a 
panic  in  Ami's  soul,  —  "  Astree  lives,  and  Astree  loves  you." 

The  dazed  and  happy  man  appeared  to  be  looking 
into  eternity,  as  he  slowly  said,  "Astree —  Francesco." 

VOL.  II.  —   T<S 


274 


MONK  AND  K.\; 


"  You  are  looking  far  away.'  PimncctOQ  \\\i>  confident 
of  Ami's  strength. 

"  I  saw  her  while  you  were  saying  she  loved  me  ;  the 
Holy  Virgin  by  her  side,  lilies  in  her  right  hand,  and  the 
gate  opening  and  closing.  Francesco,  is  it  tr  . 

"Even  so,  Ami,  even  so.  Oh,  beloved  of  Astree, 
noblest  of  knights  "  —  Francesco  kissed  the  flame  in  Aim's 
cheek,  —  "  Ami,  your  Astree  is  indeed  I  you  used 

to  say.  Her  life  at  the  court  was  as  unsuited  to  her  soul 
as  an  immeasurable  earth  would  be  to  the  presence  of  a 
glorious  star  from  heaven.  Her  quickening  beams  : 
so  illumined  the  world  as  since  she  has  left  it.  When 
the  news  of  your  death  in  the  mountains  came,  she  said : 
'  He  never  so  lived  for  God,  for  me,  as  no  r  soul 

seemed  at  once  transported  to  the  eternity  which  she 
believed  you  had  entered.  An  infinite  sky  adopted 
Astree." 

"The  star  !  "  whispered  Ami. 

"  And  to  complete  her  detachment  from  things  of 
earth,  she  fled  the  court,  the  king,  the  eyes  of  her  loving 
ones.  The  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  alone  knew  her  paths. 
Even  he  knows  not  where  she  may  be  now.  Ami,  be 
calm  ! " 

"  My  star  is  covered  with  thunderclouds,"  sobbed 

"But  she  was  landed  in  England,  and  was,  a  little  time 
ago,  safe  in  a  nunnery  in  Somerset.  Ami,  I  know  you 
are  glad  Astr£e  is  so  far  from  the  court  of  France  — 

"  In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  let  us  give  thanks  and 
rejoice,"  was  the  only  response. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

FAINT   YET   PURSUING. 
"  Evviva  il  Pontefice  e  P  Imperatore !    Viva  Clemente  e  Carlo ! " 

"  T  HAVE  come  where  I  have  long  desired  to  be,  to  the 
L  feet  of  your  Holiness,  that  we  may  take  measures 
together  to  relieve  the  needs  of  afflicted  Christendom. 
May  God  grant  my  coming  may  prove  to  be  for  the  good 
of  his  service  and  that  of  your  Holiness,  and  useful  to  the 
Christian  world  !  " 

These  words  of  the  mightiest  of  civil  monarchs  fell  upon 
the  ears  of  the  Supreme  Pontiff,  while  Charles  V.  was  on 
his  knees  before  Clement  VII.  The  Pope  had  at  last 
yielded  to  the  emperor's  desire  to  kneel  in  adoration ; 
kisses  and  tears  had  been  freely  interchanged  ;  the  at- 
tendant still  held  the  tiara  of  his  Holiness ;  the  high 
chamberlain  had  placed  in  the  royal  hand  the  crowded 
crimson  purse  intended  for  the  Pope.  Both  sovereigns 
had  forgotten  to  remain  pale,  as  at  first,  amid  countless 
genuflexions ;  and  after  a  fresh  outburst  of  tears,  Hilde- 
brand's  successor  replied,  — 

"  I  thank  God  that  I  see  you  here  safe,  after  your  long 
journey  by  sea  and  land,  and  that  affairs  are  in  such  a 
state  that  I  need  not  despair  of  seeing,  by  means  of  your 
authority,  peace  and  order  re-established." 


2;6  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

Never  before  had  so  many  feet  crowded  Into  the  street 
leading  to  the  Basilica  of  St.  Petronius ;  never  had  the 
eager  gaze  of  the  bell-ringer,  who  now  had  climbed  into 
the  high  belfry,  overlooked  such  a  dense  and  motley 
throng.  Workmen  had  carried  to  the  temporary  structure, 
within  which  these  magnates  were  to  meet  for  the  first 
time,  the  gay  colors  of  the  house  of  Medici  and  ancient 
and  elaborate  tapestries.  Twenty-eight  cardinals,  without 
a  fear  of  those  who  had  begun  to  be  called  Protesters,  or 
Protestants,  had  borne  thither  their  solemn  dignity  and 
obsolescent  importance. 

No  one  appeared  to  detect  along  the  sky  a  single  hint 
of  that  stormy  glory  which  for  the  most  part  even  yet 
lay  smouldering  in  obscure  and  public  places  where  the 
fire  was  gradually  gaining  command  of  masses  of  inflam- 
mable material,  whence  it  would  soon  rush  upward,  com- 
mingling with  the  majestic  splendor  of  the  quiet  stars. 
Only  Charles  V.,  —  "  Caesar  Imperator,"  -  —  just  as  he  rose 
from  his  knees  and  advanced  to  his  seat  on  the  left  of  the 
Pope,  felt  something  in  his  breast  which  was  the  breath  of 
the  future  whispering  again  the  inscription  on  the  arrow : 
"  Remember  the  Diet  of  Worms  !  " 

In  quiet  and  joy,  deep  as  their  love,  Ami  and  Francesco 
had  passed  the  day.  The  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  had 
a  vivid  remembrance  of  Ami,  and  of  his  services  at  the 
French  court.  By  the  grace  of  the  sailor,  Francesco  had 
been  excused  from  attendance  upon  a  scene  at  which  a 
less  generous  and  loving  nature  would  have  been  present 
at  any  cost.  Ami  had  rallied,  and  now  talked  with  as- 
tonishing vigor.  His  friend  could  detect  only  a  trace  of 
the  madness. 

With  infinite  patience  Francesco  had  awaited  a  moment 
of  sufficient  health  in  his  friend  for  the  relating  of  a  story 
the  very  anticipation  of  whose  details  thrilled  him.  How 
should  Francesco  introduce  the  subject? 

He  was  as  much  bewildered  at  the  gate  of  San  Felice 


FAINT  YET  PURSUING.  2/7 

as  Ami  had  been.  The  old  friend  could  scarcely  believe 
his  eyes,  when  days  ago,  at  the  entry  of  Charles  V., 
this  attendant  upon  Andrea  Doria  saw  standing  near,  the 
Ami  who  had  been  killed  while  crushing  out  Waldensian 
heresies.  The  day  just  passed  had  brought  no  order  out 
of  Francesco's  confusion.  He  reflected  that  Ami  had  left 
the  castle  of  Francis  I.  determined  to  find  a  settled  faith. 
How  had  he  succeeded?  While  Francesco  had  been 
answering  the  inquiries  of  the  sick  man,  cautiously  avoid- 
ing any  straining  of  his  feeble  energy,  a  throng  of  inquiries 
starting  in  his  own  soul  had  almost  paralyzed  his  tongue. 
One  phrase  which  Ami  twice  used  had  fixed  itself  in  the 
thought  of  Francesco. 

" '  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,'  or  <  In  the 
name  of  Jesus  the  Christ,'  —  Ami,  that  is  a  new  phrase  with 
you,  since  we  read  Quintilian  with  Nouvisset,  or  recited 
from  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas  to  William  Farel." 

"  It  is  a  phrase  dear  enough  to  William  Farel," 
answered  Ami. 

"What  do  you  know  of  Farel's  whereabouts,  man?" 
"William  Farel,"  said  Ami,  remembering  Francesco's 
joy  that  night  at  hearing  how  Ami  and  Queen  Marguerite 
had  accomplished  his  escape,  —  "  he  is  safe  in  Switzerland, 
and  mighty  is  his  power.  Clement  VII.  will  put  no  such 
crown  upon  the  temples  of  Charles  V.  as  God  has  put  on 
the  brow  of  our  old  friend." 

"  Ami,  you  speak  like  one  of  those  who  protest." 
"  In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  —  a  name  above  every 
name  in  heaven  above  or  earth  beneath  !  "  responded  the 
Waldensian,  his  face  radiant  with  unimagined  light,  his 
voice  steady  and  resonant,  his  body  raised  upon  his  elbow, 
as  he  lay  on  a  sort  of  cot.  "  In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ, 
I  am  what  I  am.  Yes,  Francesco,  I  am  what  I  longed 
to  be,  when  I  lived  in  the  midst  of  the  infamies  of  that 
court ;  what  I  fought  against  being  on  the  morning  when 
we  parted,  when  you  called  me  '  the  young  Bayard,'  — 


MOXA'  A.\'D  h'XIGHT. 

when  I  went  forth  to  kill  my  own  people  with  the  sword. 
I  am  a  Protestant 

Francesco  was  dumb  with  astonishment ;  and  elo- 
quent with  irrepressible  admiration,  he  stood  transfixed, 
with  the  steady,  seraphic  gaze  of  that  weak  man  upon 


"  I  know,"  said  Ami,  "  that  I  have  thrown  my  life  be- 
fore the  sharpest  of  swords  wielded  by  the  knightliest  of 
men." 

A  tear  stood  in  the  eye  of  Francesco.  Ami  fell  back 
upon  his  cot,  exhausted,  fainting. 

In  a  few  moments  Ami  had  been  restored  ;  but  he  was 
a  madman  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Again,  that  affection, 
which  was  never  so  nearly  omnipotent  as  when  it  must 
travel  in  twilight  and  carry  its  burdens  into  darkness, 
threw  its  ministries  about  the  sufferer. 

Through  the  entire  afternoon  Ami  was  quite  beyond 
control  By  and  by  night  brought  such  partial  deliver- 
ance that  the  malady  relaxed  its  severities.  Ami  fell 
asleep,  with  Francesco  at  his  side.  The  lips  were  moving, 
and  the  words  were  audible. 

"  Astree  —  Francesco  !  I  am  a  Protestant  !  Astree-— 
Francesco!" 

Little  did  Ami  think,  at  any  previous  moment,  that  of 
the  deeper  lines  in  the  spiritual  biography  of  which  Fran- 
cesco had  read  so  much  to  him,  he  had  been  kept  in 
ignorance.  He  knew,  when  they  were  together  in  Paris, 
that  of  all  men  Francesco  would  be  the  first  to  under- 
stand him,  if  he  should  ever  escape  the  fetid  atmosphere 
of  the  Church  and  cast  his  lot  with  the  Reformers.  Fran- 
cesco knew  more ;  for  he  once  had  a  hint  that  Ami  had 
sprung  from  a  Reformer.  Nouvisset,  whose  Greek  tem- 
per and  spirit  had  made  both  of  them  temperate  in  their 
credulity,  often  preserved  a  studied  silence  when  Ami 
spoke  of  destroying  heretics.  The  friendship  of  Mar- 
guerite had  manifested  jtself  in  a  correspondence  in 


FAINT   YET  PURSUING.  2 79 

which  she  had  uttered  every  sentiment  which  made  her 
such  an  ally  of  the  Reform.  Francesco's  faith  in  the  m 
thority  of  the  Pope  had  gone  before  Ami  had  left  Astree's 
side  to  fight  for  an  orthodoxy  which  the  former  s;iw  only 
as  a  vanishing-point..  Now,  as  he  sat  there  with  Ami's  fev- 
erish liaii'l  witliin  his  own,  hi-  too  was  a  protester.  Cut 
Francesco  could  not  rest,  with  a.  negative  protestantism. 
"  Astra"  e  —  Francesco  1  I  am  a  Protestant  1 " 
"  So  also  am  I  !  "  cried  out  Francesco,  pressing  the 
insane  Ami  with  his  lips,  and  seizing  him,  in  his  fresh, 
triumphant  joy,  with  that  wild,  ungovernable  freedom 
with  which  a  strong  river  delayed  by  obstructions  which 
at  a  given  instant  a  baby's  touch  might  remove,  toisei 
a  chip  in  its  foam.  He  clasped  the  weak  frame  of  Ami 
to  his  own  breast,  and  was  ;ima/.ed  to  feel  the  si  ill.  -in 
straighten  into  his  old  knightly  figure,  remove  himself  a 
few  steps,  and  say,  "  In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ !  " 

"Yes,  yes  1"  Francesco  knew  that  Ami's  sanity  had 
returned.  "  Yes,  the  hour  has  come ;  the  occasion  is 

here    for   me    to   declare    it.      The    abominable    mask    has 

fallen.     I  believe  every  true  knight  in  Europe  is  for  the 

reform.  It  is  in  the  name  ol  Jesus  Christ,  Ami  !  They 
have  crucified  him  afresh,  and  put  him  to  an  open 
shame.  The  new  <  rusade  is  on.  We  will  not  try  to 
rescue  the  grave  of  Christ  from  the  Turk,  but  we  will 
rescue  the  living  Christ  from  the  ecclesiasticism  which 
has  entombed  him." 

Of  how  much  more  enduring  significance  was  this  sim- 
ple scene  than  that  sumptuous  display  in  the  Piazza  Mag- 
giore,  only  the  history  of  the  human  soul,  beleaguen-d  with 
doubts,  dependent  upon  celestial  certainties,  Hinging  kings 

and  pontiffs  into  graves,  following  the  heroic  and  faith-^ 
ful  toward  the  dawn,  must  tell.     Charles  and  Clement 
were  playing  solemnly  with  the  toys  of  yesterday;  Fran- 
cesco and  Ami  stood  gladly   leading  the  messages  of 
to-morrow. 


2  go  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

The  hours  passed  swiftly,  as  Ami  told  of  the  march  to 
San  Michele  and  on  to  the  valleys;  the  attack  of  his 
band  upon  the  mountaineers ;  the  discovery  of  Vian's 
presence;  the  meeting  of  father  and  child,  sister  and 
brother,  after  the  fight  with  Wolsey's  emissary. 

What   a  combination,  —  Caspar   Perrin,  Alke,  Vian, 

Ami! 

During  the  conversation  —  for  Ami's  monologue  was 
turned  into  dialogue  by  the  ardent  curiosity  and  friendly 
amazement  of  Francesco  —  often  did  the  voice  of  the  Wal- 
densian  falter ;  and  Francesco  stood  like  a  living  model 
conjured  into  silence  and  made  motionless  by  the  tragic 
incidents. 

"Ami,  you  cannot  now  hate  the  man  who  saved  you 
from  murdering  your  own  sister,  —  you  cannot,  even 
though  his  name  was  Vian." 

"  I  can  despise  no  human  soul,  now  that  I  have  known 
the  love  of  God,"  was  Ami's  answer. 

"  I  know  not  all  that  you  mean,  when  you  speak  of  the 
love  of  God.  Would  that  I  knew  :  Would  that  I  felt 
God's  love  as  you  do,  Ami !  "  Francesco's  voice  was 
unsteady  with  feeling.  "  But  I  do  know  that  Astre"  e  never 
fled  from  your  love  for  love  of  Vian." 

"  That  I  also  know,"  quickly  said  Ami. 

"  I  say  to  you,  Ami,  again,  what  once  I  said  at  the 
castle,  that  Vian  did  not  seek  to  rob  you  of  Astr£e.  He 
was  as  brilliant  as  another  star,  on  the  night  when  they 
talked  on  the  sward  near  the  tent  of  the  king.  She  could 
not  keep  her  own  beams — star  that  she  is  !  —  from  ming- 
ling with  his.  Ami,  does  the  love  of  God  crush  out  the 
viper-brood  of  jealousy?  Methinks  I  note  a  change  in 
your  eye.  It  blazes  not  with  angry  jealousy,  as  once  it 
did,  at  the  mention  of  one  word,  —  Vian  !  " 

"You  had  never  said  so  much  of  my  past  sin,"  an- 
swered the  Waldensian,  "  if  you  had  known  that  it  is  dead. 
Alas,  it  may  be  that  he  is  dead  !  Poor  Vian  !  I  gave 


FAINT   YET  PURSUING.  28 1 

him  a  ghastly  and  doubtless  fatal  wound.  They  took 
him  away  in  chains,  —  my  own  knights,  who  forsook  their 
leader,  —  though  Vian  seemed  dying.  Would  that  they 
had  been  less  rough  with  so  fine  a  frame,  in  which  lived 
so  lustrous  a  mind  ! " 

Ami  had  determined  to  tell  him  of  Alke's  love  for  Vian 
at  a  later  time. 

"  Ami,  tears  like  these  you  never  shed  at  Paris. 
Does  the  love  of  God  find  the  purest  fountains  within 
us?" 

"  The  love  of  God  and  the  peace  of  God  pass  all  un- 
derstanding, Francesco  !  " 

"  I  would  that  I  knew  it  as  you  do." 

Then  the  two  men,  with  the  same  arms  about  each 
other  which  had  lifted  Nouvisset's  swords  so  often,  and 
without  a  word,  found  themselves  kneeling  down  by  that 
cot  on  which  Ami  had  been  such  a  sufferer.  The  silence 
was  broken  for  a  little  time  by  sobs.  Prayers  which  had 
only  the  language  of  tears,  ascended  to  God ;  lips  which 
had  known  only  ritual,  moved  now  with  the  one  Holy 
Name. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,"  cried  Fran- 
cesco, "  supplicate  Heaven  for  me." 

Ami  began  to  pray  aloud.  No  priesthood  could  have 
been  more  sublime ;  no  ceremonial  was  so  august  as  that 
moment  presented.  It  was  Ami's  first  prayer  for  another 
soul.  Francesco  held  to  him  with  desperate,  loving  en- 
ergy. He  seemed  clinging  to  his  guide  with  a  death-like 
grasp,  while  walking  over  fathomless  abysses. 

"I  am  a  sinner,  Ami !  Oh,  Jesus  Christ,  I  am  a  sin- 
ner ! "  cried  the  proud,  struggling  Italian. 

"  By  grace  ye  are  saved.  It  is  not  of  yourselves ;  it 
is  the  gift  of  God." 

"  I  beseech  thy  Grace,  O  Christ !  "  responded  the 
suppliant. 

"  Believest  thou  on  Jesus  Christ?  "  asked  Ami. 


282  MONK  AND  KXIGIIT. 

"  I  do  believe ;  but  I  am  slipping  out  of  the  hands  of 
Satan." 

"Thou  art  falling  into  the  hand  of  God,  Francesco  !" 

"  It  is  the  scarred  hand  of  Christ !  I  do  trust  to  be 
held,"  said  the  Italian. 

Lips  which  had  never  borne  another  soul's  destiny 
heavenward  now  became  priestly,  and  were  touched  with 
fire  as  Ami  prayed  for  Francesco.  "Then,  O  God,  thou 
Father  of  Jesus  Christ,  hear  our  prayer  !  O  Son  of  God, 
be  our  Saviour !  A  child  of  thine,  willing  to  know  thy 
love,  comes  bringing  himself  to  thee.  Let  not  his  sins 
come  between  thee  and  thy  child  !  " 

"  They  do  not !  Ami,  my  sins  have  not  hidden  me 
from  God's  love  !  They  do  not !  "  said  Francesco,  ris- 
ing quickly,  his  face  suffused  with  a  celestial  light.  "Ami, 
I  do  know  what  the  love  of  God  is  !  " 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 
THE  EMPEROR'S  SERVANT. 

"  Brief  rest  upon  the  turning  billow's  height." 

IT  was  in  the  early  morning,  that  Ami  and  Francesco 
walked  together  far  out  from  the  Piazza.  Maggiore, 
upon  which  looked  the  windows  of  the  palace  occupied 
by  the  Pope  and  the  emperor.  Upon  their  steps  the  eye 
of  Divine  love  seemed  looking  with  infinite  care.  The 
world  had  been  made  new,  while  Francesco  was  kneel- 
ing with  Ami  in  his  humble  lodgings.  He  had  come 
to  Bologna  to  be  an  attendant  upon  the  crowning  of 
Charles ;  he  had  been  made  an  heir  of  God  and  a  joint- 
heir  with  Jesus  Christ,  of  a  kingdom  incorruptible,  un- 
defiled,  and  that  fadeth  not  away.  Every  ray  of  sunlight 
which  touched  his  path  transfigured  the  planet ;  the  sky 
was  larger ;  the  earth  was  encircled  with  hope. 

Over  three  months  had  gone,  since  Charles  V.  arrived 
in  Bologna.  The  coronation  had  not  yet  taken  place ; 
but  Charles  and  Clement  VII.,  who  had  the  best  of 
reasons  for  distrusting  each  other,  had  endured  a  pro- 
longed festivity,  had  arranged  various  political  schemes, 
and  were  now  preparing  for  the  august  ceremony  of 
coronation.  Meanwhile  a  message  from  Ami  had  been 
sent  to  Caspar  Perrin,  and  one  full  of  love  had  been 
received  from  Alke. 


284  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"The  Lutheran  soldiers  pulled  down  the  Pope's 
statue  last  night,"  said  Francesco.  "They  went 
through  the  Piazza,  pulling  the  head  with  a  rope ;  and 
then  they  'burned  it." 

"  That  is  almost  as  wicked  as  a  pope  burning  a  living 
heretic,"  replied  Ami,  with  a  serious  smile. 

"  Ami,  we  must  belong  to  one  army  or  to  the  other ; 
and  I  should  like  to  go  into  the  army  of  the  Reform, 
after  this  monstrous  farce  is  over.  This  whole  affair  is 
as  unreal  as  a  mask." 

"  Behind  the  mask  are  ignorance  and  crime,  supersti- 
tion and  lying,"  said  Ami,  with  spirit. 

"  But  we  must  stay  until  it  is  done.  I  shall  go  to  the 
coronation  with  the  admiral ;  and  you  will  be  with  me. 
We  shall  see  men  with  the  faces  of  whom  we  may  desire 
to  be  familiar.  We  are  both  young.  We  shall  be  as 
much  in  earnest,  when  this  farce  is  over.  Then,  Ami. 
—  then,  as  you  say,  to  your  father's  home,  and  then  to 
William  Farel  or  Philip  Melancthon.  Your  father  knows 
both?" 

"  Yes ;  and  Luther,  too,  as  I  believe." 

This  had  been  their  matured  plan  for  many  days.  Gas- 
par  Perrin,  who  was  in  correspondence  with  the  leaders 
of  the  revolt  against  Rome,  had  already  sent  news  to 
William  Farel,  that  the  Reformers  had  gained  a  convert 
from  the  procession  of  Charles  V.  at  Bologna.  Ami  had 
informed  his  father  that  it  seemed  wise  —  he  knew  not 
why  —  that  he  should  remain  and  study  the  situation 
from  this  strategic  point  of  view,  and  that  soon  this  new 
and  important  accession  to  the  ranks  of  the  protesters 
would  start  with  him  for  the  cottage  of  the  Waldensian. 
The  letter  of  Ami  closed  with  these  words  :  — 

"  We  are  beholding  a  sunset.  Behold  the  sunrise  soon 
on  your  mountain-tops.  You  will  discover  it  on  the  heights 
of  the  Waldensian's  faith,  before  any  may  divine  it  in  this 
thick,  foul  air." 


THE  EMPEROR'S  SERVANT.  285 

It  was  the  ardent  flame  of  prophecy  bursting  from  the 
breast  of  youth  to  gladden  the  weary  eye  of  age. 

The  treaties  between  Pope  and  sovereign  had  been 
signed.  The  Pope  had  given  to  this  obedient  son  of  the 
Church  the  hat  and  sword.  The  bulls  had  been  baited, 
and  the  horse-races  were  over..  The  university  had  been 
visited ;  and  everybody  was  tired.  The  coronation-day 
was  at  hand.  The  emperor  must  be  in  Germany  at 
once.  Rome  was  too  far  away  !  "  Ubi  papa,  ubi  Roma  " 
was  repeated,  as  it  had  been  for  hundreds  of  years ;  and 
all  was  satisfactory. 

The  command  of  Andrea  Doria  brought  both  Fran- 
cesco and  Ami  into  the  immediate  service  of  the  em- 
peror. Even  Charles  V.  admired  the  beauty  and  extolled 
the  manners  of  the  young  knight  whom  Francis  I.  had 
had  no  thought  of  training  for  service  at  the  coronation 
of  his  strongest  foe.  Ami  was  placed  in  a  position  of 
delicate  responsibility.  Francesco  was  sure  that  his 
madness  would  not  recur;  else  to  obtain  such  a  place 
for  him  would  have  been  to  murder  Charles.  For 
hours,  in  the  course  of  the  tedious  arrangements,  the 
young  Protester  had  the  opportunity  of  studying  the 
eyes,  face,  manners,  and  tones  of  the  one  giant  enemy 
of  the  Reformation. 

Ami  received  from  one  of  the  cardinals  the  guardian- 
ship of  a  priceless  treasure.  Ragged  and  half  starved 
but  a  few  days  before,  he  had  then  beheld  this  same  car- 
dinal, as  with  his  train  he  had  advanced  in  solemn 
grandeur  from  the  ancient  cathedral  of  Monza,  bearing 
this  magnificent  relic.  It  was  the  iron  crown  of  Lom- 
bardy.  There,  enclosed  in  a  gold  crown  which  was 
made  of  jewelled  rays,  was  this  circle  of  iron,  —  a  nail 
from  the  true  cross.  The  cardinal  showed  Ami  the 
blood- drop  which  had  been  almost  lost  in  rust.  Ami 
was  silent  with  his  thought.  With  his  own  fingers  the 
first  Christian  king  had  placed  that  nail  in  his  helmet, 
—  so  the  cardinal  assured  Ami. 


MONK  AM)   KXHJHT. 

"  Would  so  knightly  a  man  as  you  are  desire  to  kneel 
and  kiss  it?  "  asked  his  Grace. 

Ami  was  courteous,  heroic,  silent.  The  cardinal  crossed 
himself.  His  face  was  at  first  as  red  as  his  hat,  then 
as  white  as  the  velvet  on  which  rested  the  crown. 

"  Your  sovereign  will  kneel  to  receive  it !  Your  pro- 
fane silence  will  be  broken  by  the  chatter  of  devils  ! 
These  are  cursed  times,  —  alas  !  cursed  times.  Rome 
was  sacked  by  him  who  will  do  penance  for  it  to-day ; 
but  I  know  the  curse  for  you  !  " 

It  was  too  late  for  the  enraged  cardinal  to  impeach 
the  honor  and  loyalty  of  this  strange  attendant  and 
guard.  The  Pope  and  the  sovereign  were  in  the  chapel. 
Together,  the  dignitary  and  the  guard  walked  within ; 
but  Ami  carried  only  the  crimson  velvet  cap  which 
Charles  V.  wore,  as  he  knelt  to  receive  the  iron  cruwn  ; 
and  he  withdrew,  content  to  let  Clement  VII.  crown  the 
foe  of  his  old  friend  Francis  I.  without  his  even  behold- 
ing the  spectacle. 

"This,"  thought  Ami,  "will  seem  to  have  been  a 
dream  of  tawdry  evanescence,  when  we  find  the  kinglier 
souls  who  love  God.  I  will  not  join  in  the  procession, 
now  that  I  did  not  kiss  the  iron  crown  !  Oh,  God  of 
Jesus  Christ,  make  plain  my  path  ! " 

But  there  was  no  avoiding  the  procession.  The  most 
knightly  figure  in  Bologna  must  stand  close  by  the  em- 
peror ;  and,  strangest  of  all,  must  obey  his  most  curious 
whim. 

"  The  arrow  which  missed  my  royal  head,  —  where  is 
it?"  demanded  Imperial  Charles. 

The   chamberlain,   Henry  of  Nassau,  drew  it  from  a 
jewelled  quiver  which  had  just  been  devised  by  the  most 
eminent  artist  in  Bologna.     For  nearly  four  months  this 
artificer  had  been  finding  and  polishing  jewel 
ing  them  and  fastening  them  upon  a  .pnver  of  Mcel  and 
gold,  which  was  created  to  protect  an  arrow  which 
sped  through  the  air,  outside  the  walls  near  the   convent, 


THE  EMPEROR'S  SERVANT.  287 

on  the  royal  arrival.  Charles  V.  looked  upon  the  event 
as  a  pledge  that  the  powers  above  held  him  in  divine 
protection.  He  would  not  mount  his  white  charger, 
until  Andrea  Doria  and  the  Duke  of  Urbino,  who  stood 
waiting  to  hold  the  stirrup  for  him,  had  examined  it  and 
read  the  inscription,  which  was  still  clearly  decipherable 
on  the  parchment  attached,  —  "  Remember  the  Diet  of 
Worms  !  " 

"  That  is  enough,"  said  Charles  V.,  who  did  remember 
it.  "  Bear  this  with  you,  and  fear  not.  Heaven  with 
all  the  saints  has  rulers  in  close  protection  !  "  and  then 
the  emperor  handed  the  gorgeous  quiver  to  Ami,  not  at 
all  interested  in  the  solemn  whiteness  which  made  the 
young  knight  look  like  a  ghost,  as  he  received  it. 

The  Pope's  procession  had  already  started.  Ami 
could  see  it  issuing  forth  in  awful  length  between  the 
halberdiers,  pursuing  its  sinuous  way  like  an  immense 
serpent,  rapacious,  poisonous,  omnipotent  with  its  crush- 
ing folds,  if  ever  its  anger  were  aroused.  He  looked  at 
the  arrow.  What  a  whirl  of  memories  and  hopes ! 
Ami  read  the  inscription,  and  whispered  only  this : 
"  Remember  the  Diet  of  Worms  !  "  Then  he  began  to 
mutter  it  half  audibly,  again  and  again. 

"  I  was  not  mad.  No  madman  wrote  those  words. 
The  only  sanity  is  for  Charles  V.  to  remember  that 
Luther  is  in  the  world.  I  was  not  mad.  The  sword 
which  gleamed  tliat  day  above  the  head  of  Martin 
Luther  will  cut  off  the  head  of  that  serpent."  Thus 
meditated  Ami,  until  the  King  of  the  Romans  saw  his 
hand  touch  the  piece  of  parchment. 

"Have  a  care  of  that  arrow,  and  touch  not  the 
inscription  !  "  commanded  he.  "  Would  that  I  knew  the 
writer  of  those  words  !  No  madman  was  he."  The 
emperor  fell  to  talking  with  Andrea  Doria  at  his  side. 

The  wide  bridge  which  had  been  formed  from  the 
window  of  the  palace  to  the  landing  above  the  steps 


288  MONK  AND  KXIGHT. 

leading  to  the  portal  of  St.  Petronius,  to  make  easy  the 
passage  of  these  dignitaries  to  the  high  altar,  allowed  six 
persons  to  walk  abreast.  The  pressure  of  the  papal  pro- 
cession had  already  begun  to  make  the  whole  gallery 
tremble.  Flowers  and  leaves  fell  from  above  down  to 
the  sumptuously  carpeted  floor,  which  was  touched  with 
the  flowing  edges  of  the  fine  tapestries  and  the  m.  . 
cent  velvet  cloth,  blue  as  the  unclouded  heavt : 
Against  these  showed  the  rose-colored  robes  of  the 
papal  court.  The  purple-clad  scholars,  the  cardinals  in 
characteristic  attire,  archbishops  in  rich  garments,  the 
haughtily  apparelled  fathers  of  the  ancient  city,  and  the 
heavily  armored  standard-bearers  of  the  Holy  Church, 
helped  to  make  the  crowds  of  noble  and  titled  ones  which 
advanced  before  his  Holiness. 

It  was  a  brilliant  picture.     Every  largest  thing  \\ 
broad  splendor;    every   smallest  a   gem.      Cellini 
taxed  his  genius  to  create  the  very  cla->],  whit 
the  cope  beneath  that  heavy  jaw.     Within  the 
placed  a  gem  whose  every  ray  of  beauty  was  a  gleaming 
page  of  history.     The  state-chair  trembled  not,  on  the 
strong  shoulders  of  the  servants,  who  were  so  apparelled 
that  at  a  distance  they  seemed  only  a  red  glare.     The 
Pope's  triple  crown  quivered  above  it  all,  like  the  point 
of  an  enormous  flame. 

Near  enough  to  his  Holiness  to  satisfy  the  demands 
of  his  position,  always  careful  to  be  far  enough 
from  the  emblazoned  heralds  and  finely  dressed  kings- 
at-arms  of  Francis  I.  to  escape  recognition,  Ami  beheld 
the  emperor  followed  by  officers  of  all  grades,  ambassa- 
dors of  various  powers,  attendants  without  number,  and 
cup-bearers,  heralds,  ministers,  scions  of  royal  houses,  in 
mighty  array.  He  saw  his  Majesty  take  the  oath  and 
receive  the  rochet.  The  eye  could  detect  nothing  but 
nificence  within  the  holy  fane,  as  the  great  entran-  e 
welcomed  the  sovereign  to  St.  Petronius. 


THE   EMPEROR'S  SERVANT.  289 

Crash !  and  crash  again !  With  the  awful  sound 
of  a  complete  wreck,  mingled  with  many  shrieks  and 
groans,  drowning  in  a  tumult  of  cries  and  prayers  the 
uproar  of  the  crowd  around,  fell  a  part  of  the  gallery. 
A  bounteous  harvest  of  human  beings  also  fell  before  the 
scythe-stroke  of  death. 

No  one  had  time  to  count  the  bruised  and  bleeding 
corses.  The  crowd  was  as  steady  as  the  emperor, 
when,  immediately  after  prayer  with  the  cardinal,  as  he 
entered,  he  donned  the  elaborately  adorned  cope  and 
reappeared.  The  eagle  was  stretching  his  wings  of 
pearls  and  rubies  over  the  Imperial  shoulders.  The 
neck  of  the  king  was  encircled  with  devices ;  but  Ami 
saw  only  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  and  that  significant 
phrase,  "  Plus  ultra,"  —  "  More  beyond,"  -  —  which,  since 
the  hour  of  Columbus'  great  discovery,  had  taken  the 
place  of  that  ignorant  assertion  of  the  haughty  past,  "  Ne 
plus  ultra,"  —  "No  more  beyond  !  " 

As  Ami  saw  it,  he  said  :  "  '  Plus  ultra/  —  '  More  be- 
yond ! '  Some  spiritual  voyager  also  will  be  here ;  and 
he  will  find  some  genuine  fact  on  the  other  side  of  this 
our  present  faith,  to  balance  with  what  we  know.  Then, 
in  matters  of  the  geography  of  the  soul's  life,  '  Ne  plus 
ultra  !  '  will  give  way,  on  the  crown  of  yonder  Pope,  to 
the  glad  assertion,  '  Plus  ultra  ! '  —  for  there  is  always 
more  beyond.  Luther  is  a  spiritual  Columbus." 

It  was  impossible  for  Ami  to  find  Francesco,  of  whom 
he  now  thought,  as  these  ideas  entertained  him.  He 
would  have  so  liked  to  hear  Francesco,  as  he  looked  into 
the  vista  which  had  just  then  opened  before  his  own 
mind.  It  stretched  into  spiritual  realms  far  beyond,  from 
behind  the  Supreme  Pontiff,  as  there  he  sat  before  the 
three  cardinals  and  the  emperor,  on  the  throne  erected 
within  the  choir,  through  whose  spaces  reflections  from 
the  pontifical  vessels  shone,  only  to  fade  away  as  they 
touched  the  arras  which  Flanders  had  contributed  to  the 
hangings  round  about, 

VOL.  II.  —  TQ 


290 


J/0.VA'  A.\'/>   KXIGIIT. 


Somehow  the  figure  of  Henry  IV.,  the  predecessor  of 
Charles  V.,  standing  in  the  snows  of  (  '..efore 

the  intolerable  arrogance  of  Gregory  VII.,  came  swiftly 
before  the  eye  of  Ami,  and  vanished,  as  the  emperor 
pressed  his  lips  to  the  toe  of  Clement  VII.  It 
again,  when,  after  the  anointing,  the  giving  of  the  orb, 
sceptre,  and  sword,  the  placing  of  the  half-priestly,  half- 
kingly  crown,  the  proclamation  of  high-sounding  Roman 
titles,  the  clang  of  arms,  the  thunder  of  drums,  the  blare 
of  trumpets,  the  roar  of  cannon,  the  shout  '•  Fvviva 
Carlo  Imperatore  !  "  he  saw  this  performance  repeated. 
Instantly  Ami  reflected  that  Charles  V.  was  no  Henry 
IV. ;  and  that  there  lived  in  Germany  one  soul  at  least 
who  in  moral  sovereignty  surpassed  them  all. 

What  had  kept  Admiral  Andrea  Doria  absent  in  the 
later  moments  of  the  pageant?  Just  a  moment  before 
he  was  not  in  his  place;  now  he  stood  unattended 
nearest  to  the  king.  Ami  missed  Francesco. 

He  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  the  populace  had 
become  anxious  for  the  safety  of  the  Pope  and  Charles 
V. ;  and  that  after  the  catastrophe  at  the  gallery  the 
suspicion  of  foul  treachery  to  the  emperor  on  the  part 
of  the  Italians  must  have  demanded  the  attention  of  the 
admiral.  He  had  doubtless  left  Francesco,  brave  and 
true,  to  discover  and  arrest  the  progress  of  any  move- 
ment against  the  sovereign.  Ami  did  not  overestimate 
the  disorder  and  violence  which  lay  imprisoned  in  the 
breasts  of  that  Bolognese  crowd. 

While  the  Supreme  Pontiff  celebrated  Mass,  this  self- 
respectful  young  Italian  became  more  certain  than  ever 
that  he  was  a  protester.  He  was  thinker  enough  to 
know  that  while  the  creed  was  being  chanted  by  his 
Holiness,  its  definings  were  confining  the  intellect  and 
hope  of  Europe  ;  while  the  Gospels  in  Latin  and  in  Greek 
were  being  chanted  also  by  cardinal  and  prelate,  the 
deeper  harmonies  and  sweeter  melodies  within  the  mis 
conceived  words  waited  sadly  for  the  lips  and  lives  of 


THE  EMPEROR'S  SERVANT.  291 

the  common  people  to  give  them  distinct  utterance. 
When  the  Pope  granted  plenary  indulgence  to  all  pres- 
ent, Ami  reflected  with  indignant  scorn  upon  the  days 
when  Louise  of  Savoy  offered  her  queenly  hand  to  keep 
him  pure,  while  it  was  proposed  that  his  mind  should  be 
in  league  with  iniquity.  He  threw  out  of  his  soul  for- 
ever any  such  conception  of  the  agony  of  his  Redeemer 
as  would  permit  the  Church  to  use  Christ's  superlative 
merit  to  prolong  a  shameless  infamy. 

As  the  emperor  and  Clement  VII.  marched  down  the 
great  aisle,  each  holding  the  hand  of  the  other,  magnates 
carrying  their  long  flowing  robes,  an  elegant  baldaquin 
borne  above  their  heads,  Ami  thought  of  him  who  was 
poor  and  lowly,  who  hungered  and  thirsted,  who  had  not 
a  place  for  his  head,  whose  crown  was  made  of  thorns, 
whose  white- robed  ones  have  come  up  through  great 
tribulation. 

They  reached  the  open  air.  There  stood  this  suc- 
cessor of  Peter  the  poor  fisherman,  —  the  Vicar  of  Christ 
Jesus,  Clement  VII. ;  an  emperor  bedecked  with  jewels 
was  holding  his  stirrup  !  This  vicar  of  the  man  of  Naz- 
areth had  given  Charles  V.  the  sceptre  and  orb  which  he 
was  to  guard ;  Jesus  had  said,  "  My  kingdom  is  not  of 
this  world."  This  vicegerent  of  the  Galilean  peasant 
had  just  crowned  every  devilish  sentiment  and  Satanic 
ambition  which  would  serve  the  tiara  of  Rome ;  the 
Redeemer  had  crowned  his  subjects,  each  a  priest  and 
king,  with  moral  power  alone. 

While  Ami  mused,  the  fire  burned. 

Was  it  strange  that  Ami  should  remember  with  joy  and 
hope  the  poverty,  the  heroism,  the  purity,  the  faith,  the 
simplicity  and  sublimity  of  Martin  Luther,  his  father's 
friend,  as  he  saw  that  brocaded  pontiff  chatting  pompously 
with  a  scheming  Caesar  Imperator  beneath  that  glittering 
canopy  ? 

"  Ewiva  il  Pontefice  e  F  Imperatore  !    Viva  Clemente 


2c)2  MONK'  AND   KNIGHT. 

e  Carlo  !  "  shouted  the  multitude  from  balconies,  win- 
dows, thronged  streets,  and  crowded  housetops. 

"Where  can  Francesco  be  so  long?"  said  the  affec- 
tionate Ami,  as  he  picked  up  a  banneret  on  which  flew 
the  Imperial  Eagle. 

"  You  are  wanted  by  Andrea  Doria  himself,  when  the 
procession  reaches  the  banquet."  The  helmeted  rider 
who  thus  spoke  to  Ami  had  signalled  and  had  been  al- 
lowed to  approach  the  royal  party. 

In  and  out  of  this  huge  monotonous  plain  of  ostenta- 
tious display,  the  silver  stream  of  this  friendship  worked 
its  way. 

"What  can  keep  Francesco  so  long?  "  asked  this  one 
soul,  whose  human  love  had  been  transfigured  by  the  love 
of  God. 

The  messenger  shook  his  head  and  departed.  The 
sceptre  of  Charles  V.,  which  for  a  moment  was  in  the 
hand  of  Ami,  had  almost  dropped  from  his  grasp.  The 
emperor  knew  not  that  the  man  who  carried  it  looked 
upon  those  twelve  Bolognese  nobles  who  strained  to 
bear  the  heavy  baldaquin  which  sheltered  his  Majesty 
and  the  Pope  as  men  who  ought,  at  this  crisis  in  the  his- 
tory of  Europe,  to  be  in  better  business.  Emperor  and 
Waldensian  lived  in  the  atmospheres  made  by  different 
ideas.  Each  had  thought  of  Luther  at  Worms ;  but 
through  what  various  media  had  they  seen  him  !  It  was 
not  that  one  was  Imperator  and  the  other  a  servant.  The 
difference  lay  in  the  fact  that  one  was  in  league  with 
yesterday,  the  other  was  in  league  with  to-morrow. 

As  Ami  beheld  the  gold  chains  of  the  Doctors  of  Laws 
who  appeared  in  hoods  of  miniver,  he  seemed  to  see  one 
of  the  last  appearances  of  the  chain  as  a  limitation  upon 
the  scholar's  soul.  Clement  VII.  saw  those  chains  as 
badges  of  subjection  to  the  Church.  The  trumpeters 
made  the  air  tremble.  The  drums  kept  the  ears  of  the 
citizens  weary  with  noise.  The  eye  grew  tired  of  the 


THE  EMPEROR'S  SERVANT.  2Q3 

purple  and  crimson  robes,  the  red  fringes  hung  with 
pearls  and  gems,  the  red  housings  of  the  horses  glitter- 
ing with  gold  lace,  silver  maces,  red  hats  on  gilt  staves, 
blue  silk  flags  covered  with  lilies  and  golden  lettering, 
white  banners  illumined  by  fiery  crosses,  and  innumerable 
torches  carried  by  illustrious  men.  Ami's  heart  was  with 
Francesco.  In  the  din  and  confusion  he  feared  that 
his  own  madness  might  return  upon  him ;  and  now  his 
lips  moved  again  with  the  words  :  "  Francesco  —  Astr£e  ! 
Astree  —  Francesco  ! " 

At  length  to  his  weary  brain  the  procession  of  Clement 
VII.  and  Charles  V.  became  a  confused  mass  of  heralds, 
bishops,  imperial  eagles,  Turkish  horses,  dukes,  mar- 
quesses, counts,  admirals,  soldiers  in  red  surcoats,  col- 
leges of  cardinals  in  still  more  blazing  red,  tribunes  in 
caps  and  cuirasses.  Lorenzo  Cibo,  crusader  and  cap- 
tain of  the  Papal  Guard,  carrying  the  image  of  the  dead 
Christ;  the  Gonfaloniere  of  Justice  bearing  a  flag  on 
which  the  word  "  Libertas  "  was  written  ;  the  sacrament 
carried  on  a  horse  on  whose  neck  hung  a  silver  bell, 
whose  back  was  covered  with  gold  and  embroidery  of 
silk ;  the  emperor,  crowned  and  mantled ;  the  Supreme 
Pontiff,  begemmed  and  adored,  —  these  stood  out  from 
'the  rest  of  the  long,  rich  pageant.  Ami  was  tired  out ; 
and  the  heart  within  him  was  aching  with  doubt.  Where 
could  Francesco  be  ? 

"  Have  you  lost  the  arrow  with  the  parchment,  young 
man?"  said  a  knight  who  rode  near,  and  was  recognized 
at  once  as  the  chief  attendant  upon  the  chamberlain  of 
the  sovereign.  As  he  spoke,  he  touched  a  large  and 
jewelled  lance. 

In  attitude  and  manner  Ami  was  knightly  enough,  as 
he  responded ;  but  his  tongue  was  silent.  The  hated 
authority  of  both  the  Pope  and  the  emperor  looked  at 
him  for  a  long,  painful  moment. 

"  I  will  speak  to  the  emperor,  and  satisfy  his  Imperial 


294 


MONA'  AND  KNIGHT. 


Majesty,"  replied  Ami ;  and  then  he  tried  to  look  con- 
tempt upon  the  knight.  "  Do  you  know  the  Admiral 
Andrea  Doria?  In  the  care  of  his  friend  and  most  chiv- 
alrous attendant,  Francesco  de  Robo  — 

"  Francesco  de  Robo  !  "  The  knight's  tone  was  full  of 
intelligent  astonishment  and  evident  pain. 

"  Stop  !  May  it  please  you  to  retire  to  another  place  !  " 
urged  Ami. 

They  withdrew  from  the  procession,  which  had  reached 
the  great  hall.  For  many  minutes  Ami's  brain  had  been 
in  chaos.  Now  lightning-like  flashes  of  agony  shot 
through  his  forehead.  He  was  allowed  to  go  :  his  face 
was  like  that  of  the  dead  ;  the  King  of  the  Romans 
would  sleep  a  little  before  the  banquet. 

The  knight  seemed  stern  and  cold,  as  the  fevered  lips 
of  Ami  opened  to  say:  "The  arrow  which  the  High 
Chamberlain  bade  me  keep  safely,  is  in  the  safer  guar- 
dianship of  the  best  of  young  knights,  Francesco  de 
Robo." 

The  knight  reined  up  his  steed.  "  Young  man,  I  know 
you  well.  By  the  soul  of  Bayard,  —  for  I  do  not  care 
for  saints,  —  I  charge  you  flee  !  Flee  at  my  word,  for 
your  very  life  !  You  have  been  suspected  of  heresy ; 
hence,  of  treason.  The  heralds  of  Francis  I.  in  this  pro- 
cession have  told  of  your  history.  Antonio  de  I^yva 
has  a  dagger  in  a  murderous  hand,  waiting  for  your  heart. 
Francesco  de  Robo  was  killed  by  the  falling  of  the  gallery  ! 
From  his  bleeding  hand  I  brought  this  fragment  of  the 
arrow,  —  the  quiver  was  stolen  ;  and  here  is  your  ring 
which  Francesco  took  from  a  robber.  This  piece  of  the 
arrow  I  shall  give  to  the  chamberlain.  Take  you  the 
ring.  Flee  !  flee  at  once  !  " 

In  a  brief  hour  Ami  was  again  clad  as  a  beggar,  and 
was  in  flight  toward  La  Torre. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 


WANDERINGS    OF    SOUL. 

Spite  of  the  mask  eternal  love  doth  wear 
At  times,  that  makes  us  shrink  from  it  in  fear, 
Because  the  Father's  face  we  cannot  find, 
Nor  feel  the  presence  of  His  love  behind, 
Nature  at  heart  is  very  pitiful. 

GERALD  MASSEY. 

,  what  am  I  to  believe?  I  could  let  all  else  go, 
if  only  I  could  hold  to  a  faith  in  the  goodness 
of  this  Almighty  One.  It  is  terrible  that  God  is  so  pow- 
erful, if  He  is  not  kind  !  " 

It  was  Vian,  solitary  and  chilled,  talking  to  his  own 
soul,  as  he  clambered  up  the  side  of  one  of  the  Alpine 
peaks  in  search  of  a  spot  upon  which  he  could  pass  the 
night  without  the  suffering  which  the  unimpeded  waves 
of  cold  air  promised  to  his  weary  frame. 

"  Oh,  why  did  an  Almighty  goodness  ever  permit  me 
to  see  Alke,  if  having  seen  her  she  may  not  be  mine  ? 
Omnipotent  evil  could  hardly  invent  a  more  exquisite 
cruelty  than  this.  To  be  trained  by  a  vision  which  has 
every  moral  right  to  be  revered  and  obeyed ;  to  have 
been  leagued  with  a  dream  which  alone  has  made  my 
existence  valuable  and  my  life  worthy ;  then  to  have  come 
to  the  glad  moment  when  this  vision,  so  desperately  clung 
to,  ceased  being  a  dream  and  was  henceforth  a  living 
reality,  —  a  reality  so  surpassingly  beautiful,  so  sacredly 


296  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

pure,  —  and  in  that  same  moment  to  have  realized  thai 
the  reality  itself  was  quivering  with  yearnings  to  lose  its 
life,  and  so  to  gain  its  life  in  my  life ;  then  at  last  to  find 
that  the  one  deep  and  delicious  kiss  which  made  all 
that  prophecy  into  history,  marked  the  instant  when  we 
were  hurled  apart !  —  this  is  a  very  crime  against  souls." 

So  strongly  did  the  heart  of  Vian  protest,  in  its  unrea- 
soning anguish,  that  his  intellect  was  almost  ready  to 
say,  "  There  is  no  God."  He  trembled  as  he  remem- 
bered the  last  night's  starless  sky  above  him,  threatening 
to  become  a  permanent  heaven  for  his  soul.  The  wind 
shrieked  amid  the  crags  and  pines;  and  now  and 
the  lightning  bolt  which  leaped  out  of  the  scabbard  of 
the  midnight  gloom  seemed  the  sword  of  omnipotence 
which  reached  his  heart. 

"  I  know  a  bishop  who  is  an  atheist,"  he  said  ;  and  he 
laughed  until  the  horror  of  it  frightened  him.  "  He  was 
an  atheist,  because  he  never  had  a  vision  and  had  never 
loved.  I  may  become  one,  because  I  have  had  one  and 
have  loved.  By  what  opposite  experiences  do  men  reach 
the  —  "  Vian  could  not  say  "truth." 

The  word  "  truth,"  like  a  solitary  and  hapless  sailor, 
hung  to  the  wreckage  in  Vian's  soul.  He  must  do  some- 
thing with  it,  for  it  seemed  such  a  hapless  thing.  He 
asked  the  old  question  :  "  What  is  truth  ?  " 

Four  years  and  more,  separated  the  evening  of  this 
day  from  the  day  of  the  attack  and  separation  from  Alke. 

Vian  was  still  suffering  as  a  wounded  man,  —  wounded 
in  soul  and  body.  The  French  knight  Ami,  on  that 
dreadful  day  near  La  Torre,  had  given  him  a  stroke  with 
his  steel  which  had  lacerated  the  flesh  of  his  shoulder ; 
and  only  the  Virgil  manuscript,  four  leaves  of  which  had 
been  run  through  by  the  point  of  Ami's  sword  had  - 
Vian's  heart.  In  the  haste  with  which  he  had  been 
dragged  away  by  the  affrighted  knights,  nothing  was 


WANDERINGS  OF  SOUL. 

done  to  provide  against  the  loss  of  blood.  The  inhu- 
manity of  Vian's  captors  softened  a  little  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  wine  which  they  obtained  from  an  innkeeper 
whose  premises  they  raided  for  food;  and  the  wife  of 
the  innkeeper  was  allowed  to  apply  a  plaster  to  the  cut, 
and  give  some  salve  to  their  prisoner. 

Vian  had  found  out,  before  the  French  knights  had 
gone  far  from  the  scene  of  their  anticipated  triumph  at 
Caspar  Perrin's  house,  that  they  were  actually  panic- 
stricken  by  the  complete  victory  achieved  by  the  Wal- 
densians.  They  were  but  a  fragment  6f  the  contingent 
which  Francis  I.  had  loaned  for  the  service  of  the  Pope 
on  that  occasion ;  they  were  fearful  of  being  pursued  by 
the  mountaineers,  of  whose  daring  and  ability  they  had 
the  most  extravagant  notions  :  they  were  leaderless,  be- 
lieving that  Ami  had  been  killed  by  Vian  in  the  cottage  ; 
and  where  they  were,  or  whither  they  were  fleeing,  they 
did  not  know. 

Soon  Vian,  who  appreciated  the  value  of  these 
features  of  their  discomfiture  to  the  safety  of  his  own 
hopes,  had  begun  to  plan  his  escape.  The  night  of 
Nov.  6,  1529,  came  upon  the  French  knights,  as  they 
paused  for  rest  in  a  narrow  defile,  into  which  fell  the 
discordant  echoes  of  a  brawling  stream  that  tumbled 
down  over  a  confused  mass  of  rocks.  The  guard  had 
often  slept  at  his  side.  He  might  fall  asleep  on  that- 
night.  Amid  the  noises  made  by  that  furious  cataract, 
Vian  might  make  his  escape.  A  storm  was  also  coming 
on,  and  the  very  heavens  seemed  his  ally.  Never  did  the 
accordant  tinkling  of  a  thousand  rills  sound  so  melodi- 
ously as  did  the  coarse  plunges  and  ugly  roar  of  that 
cataract.  Never  did  Vian  listen  with  such  rapture  to  the 
growl  of  the  thunder.  Never  quivered  he  with  such  fear 
and  foreboding,  as  when  the  eyes  of  the  storm-god  were 
aflame  in  the  dark,  and  in  those  flashes  the  cruel  guard 
looked  into  his  pale  but  determined  face. 


298  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  Listen  !  "  said  the  knight  whom,  for  lack  of  a  leader, 
each  obeyed. 

"  A  horseman  !  "  ventured  the  prisoner. 

"A  Waldensian  !  you  are  praying?  "  said  his  guard. 

Before  Vian's  silence  had  fully  answered  that  query, 
a  band  of  monks  disguised  as  soldiers  entered  the  defile, 
and  exhibiting  a  gilt  cross,  found  themselves  welcomed 
by  the  hungry,  frightened,  and  lost  representatives  of  his 
Majesty  Francis  I.  and  his  Holiness  Clement  VII. 

"  We  are  here  to  show  you  the  road  to  your  friends, 
who  long  to  be  back  in  Paris,  where  are  no  Waldensians, 
and  to  conduct  you  thither.  We  are  also  come  to  carry 
this  false-hearted  servant  of  the  Pope  to  a  suitable  prison." 

"  Roast  his  flesh  at  La  Tone  !  "  cried  out  the  guard. 
"  I  have  seen  better  than  he  sizzle  and  fry  at  the 
capital." 

"  We  have  a  strong  prison  many  leagues  from  this  spot. 
To  that  dungeon  he  shall  be  taken,"  was  the  answer. 

For  four  years  had  the  thick  walls  of  one  of  the  dun- 
geons of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church  surrounded  the  life 
and  the  hope  of  Vian.  Silence  as  to  the  place  on  God's 
world  in  which  his  cell  was  located  ;  silence  as  to  the 
length  or  character  of  the  tortures  of  which  he  was  con- 
tinually forewarned  and  many  of  which  he  did  not  escape  ; 
silence  as  to  that  checkered  past,  with  its  comedies  and 
'tragedies,  its  joys  and  agonies,  its  Alke  ;  silence  as  to  the 
future,  which  had  now  come  to  be  inhabited  with  ghosts 
and  doubts,  —  silence  amid  echoes  of  chains,  cries  of 
pain,  whisperings  of  death,  had  oppressed  the  brain  and 
presided  over  the  heart  of  Vian  for  four  long  years. 

At  last  one  night  Vian,  who  had  feigned  sickness, 
was  visited  by  the  guardsman,  who  had  now  made  himself 
certain  that  the  recalcitrant  monk  had  no  purpose  of 
escaping. 

The  curious  guard  had  brought  with  him  Vian's  coins 
and  the  manuscript ;  and  he  was  determined  to  extract 


WANDERINGS  OF  SOUL.  299 

from  him  the  story  of  their  significance.  Curiosity  had 
made  prudence  forget  herself. 

Vian  saw  his  opportunity.  The  silent  walls  could  not 
cry  out.  He  seized  the  arms  upon  the  guard,  who 
groaned  as  he  received  a  blow  from  his  own  bludgeon. 
Every  key  which  Vian  tried,  found  the  secret  of  the  lock. 
Out  into  the  valley  he  ran,  and  was  free  again. 

When,  at  the  opening  of  this  chapter,  we  found  him 
crawling  upon  the  shelf  of  rocks  which  was  sheltered 
from  the  raw  wind,  he  had  enjoyed  five  days  of  liberty ; 
but  he  knew  nothing  as  to  where  he  was  or  whither  he 
should  go.  He  was  free ;  and  he  would  guard  that 
freedom  with  life  itself. 

He  had  lost  dates  and  days  from  his  mind ;  but  it  was 
November,  1533. 

Soon  morning  came.  From  gray  to  blue  the  sky 
deepened.  Pale  wreaths  of  dreamy  white  floated  along 
the  mountain  summits.  Resinous  odors  filled  the  air; 
and  as  the  blue  above  grew  more  intense,  Vian  found 
his  eyes,  which  for  so  long  had  even  tended  to  confirte 
his  thoughts  to  the  walls,  running  their  new  roadways 
into  the  unexplored  infinities  above  him.  A  few  chestnuts 
which  he  had  kept  for  his  hunger,  at  sunrise  had  sufficed 
to  calm  his  fiercest  demands ;  and  carefully  avoiding 
breaking  open  again  the  wound  which  had  recently 
showed  signs  of  healing,  he  had  so  turned  his  body  that 
the  full  depth  of  the  sky  was  above  him ;  and  Vian  was 
thinking  of  Alke  and  the  almightiness  of  God. 

"  '  What  is  truth  ? '  Yes ;  I  went  to  sleep,  last  night, 
with  that  question  on  my  lips.  Why  need  I  care,  if 
there  is  none  almighty  to  be  true  ?  I  do  not  care ;  for 
I  am  hungry  now.  Yet  that  is  not  truly  /,  who  said  I 
did  not  care ,  for  what  truth  may  be,  because  I  am  hun- 
gry. Truly  I  ?  —  what  a  strange  thing  is  language  !  One 
puts  words  out  of  sight,  and  they  rise  again.  Truly  — 
Ah  !  we  Pythagoreans  believed  the  soul  lived  again ; 


300  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

but  in  actual  life,  it  is  the  body.  The  idea  dies ;  the 
word,  its  body,  turns  up  again.  I  care  not  for  truth, 
but  I  cannot  talk  long  without  that  word  *  truly.'  " 

A  bouquetin  went  springing  over  him ;  and  a  gier- 
eagle  swooped  down  near  enough  to  find  out  that  the 
ragged  mass  was  not  carrion. 

"That  bird  thought  it  scented  carrion.  Well,  I 
would  be  carrion  itself,  if  I  could  honestly  say  I  cared 
not  what  is  truth  !  Who  so  made  me,  and  for  what  ?  I 
know  not.  This  I  do  know.  /  must  confess  an  interest 
in  '  truth,'  whatever  it  is.  Truth  is  to  me  what  this  light 
is  to  my  eyes.  What  is  truth  ?  " 

We  have  seen  Vian,  with  the  sub-prior  of  Glastonbury, 
struggling  with  the  fear  that  intellectual  and  spiritual 
anarchy  must  surely  come,  if  there  happened  to  the 
Church  and  the  Pope  any  such  changes  as  the  Reforming 
movement  seemed  to  contemplate.  Vian  was  a  lover  of 
order,  organization,  and  strength.  He  looked  with  grave 
foreboding  upon  the  prospect  of  an  England  without  some 
sort  of  authoritative  head  and  leader  of  religious  inter- 
ests. Yet  he  could  never  honestly  acknowledge  the  su- 
premacy of  the  Pope  in  his  own  brain,  nor  the  right  of 
the  Church  to  condemn  any  man  for  refusing  to  believe 
the  monstrous  stories  of  saints  and  ceremonies. 

Out  of  all  that  disaster  into  which  his  faith  in  Rome 
or  in  Pythagoreanism  had  fallen,  rose  one  fact,  so  beau- 
tiful, so  true,  —  Alke. 

True,  after  a  manner  very  common  to  mankind, 
Vian  at  Caspar's  home  had  accepted  Jesus  Christ  as  his 
Saviour ;  but  Alke  was  far  too  prominent  in  the  transaction 
to  make  the  Christ,  at  such  a  crisis  as  this  which  involved 
the  loss  of  Alke,  a  saving  power  in  Vian's  character  and 
life.  If  ever  he  was  to  realize  Jesus  Christ  as  his  Saviour, 
he  must  come  to  that  realization  through  such  an  ex- 
perience as  would  carry  his  intellectual  nature ;  for 
Vian's  regnant  strength  did  not  lie  in  his  emotions  or 


WANDERINGS   OF  SOUL.  30 1 

even  in  his  conscience.  His  experience  would  certainly 
be  as  different  from  Ami's  as  were  their  souls. 

Through  many  weeks  of  effort  to  avoid  those  monks 
and  guardsmen  who  haunted  the  mountain  paths  for  their 
escaped  prisoner,  he  dodged  their  shrewdest  guesses  as 
to  his  hiding-places ;  and  he  also  dodged  the  old  forces 
of  belief,  which  were  even  farther  away  than  they  from 
his  real  self.  Alke  —  she,  the  little  mate  in  his  dream 
at  Lutterworth  —  had  led  him  into  purity  and  honor ; 
"  now,"  said  he,  "  she  must  lead  me  into  faith  and  hope, 
if  I  am  to  reach  either.  But  the  one  power  which  might 
make  me  true  is  denied  me  ! " 

He  sobbed  these  last  words,  as  one  evening  he  stood 
so  painfully  alone  in  the  desolation  of  the  Alps,  while  the 
sinking  sun  was  making  the  whole  west  a  living  flame. 
As  against  this  sheen  of  intolerable  red  he  stood  gather- 
ing his  rags  about  him,  he  seemed  a  black  monolith 
whose  edges  burned  with  resistless  fires. 

"Ah,  it  is  the  truth  which  makes  her  true  !  "  and  Vian 
persuaded  himself  to  strive  to  pray  to  it  after  a  while, 
when  night  had  entirely  come.  But  it  is  easy  to  forget 
an  abstraction,  especially  in  the  dream  of  such  a  person- 
ality as  was  Alke ;  and  Vian  went  to  sleep  thinking  only 
of  her. 

Every  morning  when  the  purple  linnets  flew  into  the 
crisp  air,  which  was  so  stimulating  to  his  thought  and  so 
exhaustive  upon  the  poor  supplies  which  he  now  dared 
to  beg  for  his  hunger,  he  looked  upward  to  the  snowy 
crests  with  these  words  in  mind  :  "  No  man  hath  seen 
God  at  any  time :  the  only  begotten  Son,  he  hath 
declared  Him."  But  for  many  days  the  refulgent  cloud 
which  swept  between  the  summit  and  Vian's  eyes  seemed 
big  with  prophecy  of  revelation. 

"  Why  need  I  have  a  creed  at  all  ?  Or  if  I  need  a 
creed,  let  the  Church  make  it !  Ah,  no  !  the  Church  is 
composed  of  human  beings,  and  "  —  he  was  thinking  of 


302  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

his  dungeon  and  the  tortures  he  had  seen  —  "such  human 
beings!    They   are    inhuman.     These,    nmwithstai: 
are  the  men   who  keep  the  unity  of  the  faith ;    tinw- 
are the  guardians  of  orthodoxy.     Oh,  there  never 
such  heresy !    Besides,  I  have  long  ago  renounced  the 
dominion  of  the  Church  over  me." 

So  vanished  the  idea  that  the  Church  ever  could 
legislate  a  creed  into  his  soul. 

"  Why  need  I  believe  ?  "     He  was  attempting  to  cross 
an  abyss  at  the  moment,  and  he  soon  was  saying 
should  fail,  if  I  doubted  now.     Oh,  I  must  have  a  faith 
or  perish  ! " 

For  that  winter  he  had  hired  himself  to  an  ignorant 
mountaineer,  and  had  found  out  from  him  the  direction 
in  which  he  could  pursue  his  course  to  Basle.  Often- 
times as  he  looked  out  upon  the  snow,  which  lay  like 
a  permanent  enamel  upon  the  fields,  he  believed  that 
spring-time  might  find  living  seeds  beneath  the  cold, 
glittering  doubt  which  had  overspread  his  soul. 

Would  spring-time  ever  come?  The  fagots  which  he 
gathered  for  his  somewhat  exacting  employer  had  grown 
and  fallen  in  a  vast  amphitheatre  which  was  now  one  white 
splendor. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  once,  "  that  I  could  hear  Alke's  voice 
in  this  place  !  "  Then  he  amused  himself  with  the  notion 
that  as  the  mountaineers  warmed  themselves  by  these 
fagots  within  the  little  home,  so  perhaps  he  was  barely 
keeping  his  mind  at  work  with  the  relics  of  a  once  green 
and  beautiful  faith.  But  the  peaks  rose  in  such  ghostly 
procession  and  stretched  their  line  so  far  toward  the 
north,  and  even  the  quivering  orange  which  remained 
for  a  moment  against  the  battlemented  sky-line  faded 
so  soon,  that  his  worn  brain  lost  the  significance  of 
its  own  ideas,  and  he  sat  looking  out  of  vacancy  into 
vacancy. 

"What  is  truth?"    Vian  had  said  this  so  often  in  the 


WANDERINGS   OF  SOUL.  303 

sharp  air,  as  he  had  looked  up  to  the  frosty  glory  of  a 
single  crag,  that  the  children  called  him,  for  want  of  his 
real  name,  "Truth."  Oh,  how  often  the  little  flaxen- 
haired  girl  who  sat  on  his  knee  in  the  evening  as  he 
sang  to  her  of  the  fathomless  crimson  of  the  Alpine 
morning,  sent  a  sword  into  his  soul,  as  she  begged  him 
to  sing  again,  calling  him  "Truth  !  "  "Truth  !  " 

Spring-time  at  length  glowed  one  day  over  the  frozen 
mirror  of  ice,  —  a  sky  beneath  reflecting  the  heavens 
above.  The  drifting  clouds  caught  the  prophecy  of 
summer  in  the  morning ;  and  all  day  Vian  saw  it  flicker- 
ing in  the  great  gallery  builded  of  rock,  which  was  always 
full  of  contending  light  and  gloom.  The  illimitable  gulf 
which  lay  below  him  was  being  disturbed  by  a  venture- 
some stream,  which  hurried  away  from  the  dissolving 
slopes.  Turquoise,  beryl,  and  amethyst  soon  blazed  forth 
where  the  mountains  had  been  adorned  with  ice- 
covered  flutings,  like  great  lines  of  polished  steel.  Green 
edges  appeared  along  the  streams,  and  the  awful  monot- 
ony of  trackless  white  was  broken.  Spring  had  come ; 
and  Vian,  whose  heart  seemed  bursting  as  they  said 
"farewell"  to  "Truth,"  departed,  going  toward  the 
north. 

Provided  with  arquebus  and  flint,  he  found  himself 
able  to  obtain  game ;  and  such  other  necessaries  were 
purchased  of  mountaineers  as  made  his  progress  far 
less  painful  than  that  of  months  before.  All  other 
problems  were  simple  enough,  however,  in  comparison 
with  his  problem  of  faith. 

Long  before  Professor  Tyndall,  as  he  tells  us,  read 
Canon  Mozley  on  "  Miracles  "  in  the  Alps,  did  Vian  find 
it  possible  to  lose  the  personal  God  in  the  midst  of 
Nature's  sublimest  spectacles.  Long  before  Frederick 
W.  Robertson  wandered  in  the  Tyrol,  saying  at  length, 
though  he  had  left  much  of  the  still  unburied  remains  of 
English  dogmatism  behind  him,  "  It  is  right  to  do  right," 


304 


fifONK  AND  KNIGHT. 


Vian  was  asking  himself,  not  "What  is  right?"  -for  his 
conscience  did  not  lead  him,  —  but  "What  is  truth?" 
Long  before  John  Henry  Newman  mentioned  the  moun- 
tain solitude  as  a  spot  for  meditation  and  the  strengthening 
of  faith,  Vian  was  trying  to  find  a  seat  of  authority  some- 
where between  the  individual  reason  and  the  colic 
Rome.  "  What  is  truth  ?  "  he  still  cried. 

One  day  late  in  autumn  he  was  skirting  the  northern 
spur  of  an  unknown  range  of  peaks,  and  had  just  suc- 
ceeded in  avoiding  an  abrupt  cliff,  when  he  saw  crouch- 
ing before  him  a  being  so  hideous,  so  debased,  yet  so 
human,  that  his  eye  removed  its  gaze  from  him  at  once, 
and  sought  to  lose  its  memory  in  the  distances  above 
him. 

"That,"  said  Vian,  who  had  become  accustomed  to 
hearing  his  own  voice  in  the  solitudes,  —  "  that  is  the  riddle 
of  this  universe,  —  this  pure  blue  sky,  a  vast  infinity  of 
beauty,  overarching  that  loathsome  thing  !  Ah,  the  good 
is  too  far  away  from  the  evil  !  The  sky  is  not  near 
enough  to  the  earth.  Nay,  if  there  were  nothing  but 
what  is  below,  no  sky,  we  should  not  see  such  a  mon- 
strous thing !  The  wrong  and  the  right,  the  bad  and 
the  good,  the  earth  and  the  sky —  Horrible  creature  !  " 
and  Vian  looked  up  to  heaven  from  the  disgustful  object 
at  his  feet,  and  said,  "O  Almighty !  — but  art  Thou 
good  ?  " 

It  was  a  cretin,  such  as  the  reader  has  doubtless  seen 
in  his  excursions  through  the  valley  of  Aosta  or  the 
Rhone. 

This  uncouth  and  distorted  being  was  rolling  in  the 
leaves,  as  appeared  to  be  his  habit  on  seeing  a  man 
approach.  His  idiocy  was  most  brutish.  Great  goitres 
were  protruding  from  his  neck,  and  foul  sores  had  eaten 
their  way  over  his  scalp.  .  His  hands  were  like  the  talons 
of  a  bird  of  prey.  Gabbling  incessantly  in  the  patois  of 
utter  idiocy,  his  mouth  seemed  the  opening  to  a  pit  of 


WANDERINGS  OF  SOUL.  305 

evil.  He  staggered  toward  Vian ;  and  precipitantly  did 
the  friend  of  the  late  Cardinal  Wolsey  flee  from  him. 

"  Doubtless  he  has  been  brought  out  here  to  starve  to 
death.  Poor,  hideous  thing  !  What  is  truth?" 

Vian  was  making  the  vain  attempt  to  lose  his  reminis- 
cence of  the  gibbering  and  foul  cretin,  when  his  eye 
swept  across  the  vague  blue  mist,  which  lingered  above 
the  black  rocks,  beneath  which  grew  the  late  crimson 
flowers.  The  haziness  of  his  belief  was  sure  of  a  sort  of 
defence  in  that  dream-like  air.  Wreaths  of  vapor  were 
visiting  the  spires  and  pines ;  and  just  now  he  loved  to 
look  upon  them  rather  than  upon  the  sharp,  definite 
grandeur  which  lifted  the  snow-clad  pinnacles  above. 
Every  time  he  had  seen  the  huge  ledge  flush  with  the 
waning  day,  "What  is  truth?  "  had  thundered  in  his  soul. 
Why  did  it  now  seem  such  a  meaningless  question? 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Vian,  who  pitilessly  examined  his  own 
soul  with  Alke  as  a  search-light,  "  I  must  not  lose  my 
interest  in  that  question.  What  is  truth?  The  truth 
has  made  her  true  ;  but  I  am  not  so  clear-sighted  as  I 
was  before  that  contorted  and  blear-eyed  wretch  crossed 
my  path.  Ha  !  could  he  have  blinded  me?  " 

Vian  just  then  found  in  his  mind  one  of  the  texts 
which  he  had  learned  from  that  Wycliffe  New  Testament. 
It  came  in  response  to  his  old  query,  "What  is  truth?" 

"  1 am  the  truth!" 

"  Well,"  said  Vian,  as  he  clambered  on,  "  Jesus 
Christ,  who  said  '  I  am  the  truth,'  I  have  never  seen  or 
known,  as  I  really  believe,  except  in  that  hour  with  little 
Alke.  We  did  not  know  him  at  Glastonbury.  It  was 
Mary  the  Virgin  and  the  saints  there.  It  is  sure  that 
many  of  the  stories  of  these  I  cannot  believe.  They 
are  untrue.  How  much  may  I  believe  of  him  whom  I 
have  not  seen?  Others  saw  him.  Yes;  but  not  as  my 
Saviour.  I  must  see  him  as  my  Saviour  before  what  they 
saw  of  him  can  be  believed  by  me.  Ah  !  I  remember 

VOL.  II  —  20 


306  MOX/C  AXD  KNIGHT. 

another  text,  —  now  that  I  am  resolved  to  go  lurk  and 
give  these  chestnuts  to  the  poor  brute.  Would  I  had 
not  to  do  this ;  for  I  could  come  to  the  truth  if  I  should 
not  see  that  mindless  creature  again  !  " 

No,  Vian ;  the  truth  lies  concealed  in  the  rags  of  the 
idiot.  Whoso  most  needs  any  man,  him  does  that  man 
most  need. 

Vian  climbed  up  and  down,  over  the  rocks,  and  waded 
a  stream  to  reach  the  hunched  and  vacant-eyed  cripple, 
who  hobbled  toward  him  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset. 
"  He  that  hath  done  it  unto  the  least  of  these  hath  done  it 
unto  me."  This  sentence  wreathed  the  unkempt  head 
of  the  bleared  cretin  with  an  aureole. 

"Unto  me?"  — Vian's  eye  was  becoming  more  clear. 
"Unto  me?"  —  he  could  now  endure  the  suffocating 
smell.  Yes ;  something  was  making  Yian  true. 

"  The  truth  made  Alke  true,"  —  he  had  said  that 
himself. 

"  Unto  me  ?  "  —  the  senseless  mass  of  flesh  rolled  his 
head  from  side  to  side,  and  falling  among  the  leaves 
again,  clapped  his  hooked  hands. 

Could  Vian  be  mistaken?  Something  was  lifting  him 
up ;  and  as  he  was  lifted  he  saw  more.  "  Is  it  the  idiot 
whom  I  am  seeking?  "  -said  he.  "  No  ;  the  Christ  it  i->.  ' 

"Unto  me?" 

Something  was  actually  saving  Yian  from  his  lower 
self  to  his  higher  self.  Some  one  —  the  idiot  or  the 
Christ  —  was  his  Lord.  He  knew  it  was  the  real  Christ. 

"  I  do  not  need  Rome  or  reason  to  tell  me  with  au- 
thority," said  he,  as  he  fed  the  chattering  clay.  "  This  is 
a  matter  of  fact ;  experience  authorizes  what  I  would  tell 
Alke,  if  I  could  —  Oh,  how  good  is  the  Almighty  !  The 
Christ,  who  is  the  truth,  does  save  me." 

On,  over  the  mountains,  fed  daily  by  Vian's  hand, 
grunting  his  gratitude  and  following  him  like  a  dog,  did 


WANDERINGS  OF  SOUL.  307 

the  cretin  go.  The  hand  which  had  touched  that  of 
Katherine  of  Arragon,  and  had  helped  to  write  Henry's 
attack  on  Luther,  washed  the  cretin's  head.  The  kind- 
ness which  had  saved  Astree  at  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold  "  showered  its  luxuriant  blessings  upon  this  creature, 
whom  Vian  regarded  with  more  reverence  than  he  ever 
wasted  on  the  papal  nuncio. 

One  day  death  parted  the  wanderers.  The  incurable 
malady  had  completed  the  paralysis  of  the  cretin's  frame, 
and  in  the  delicious  sunshine  Vian  covered  the  body. 
He  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  pile  of  green  branches,  whose 
resinous  odor  made  the  only  incense,  and  thanked  God, 
and  consecrated  his  soul  anew  to  the  service  of  the 
truth. 

Vian's  theological  difficulties  were  solved  in  the  begin- 
ning of  his  Christian  experience.  No  one  knew  better 
than  he  how  little  an  uninspired  life  can  get  out  of  an  in- 
spired book.  Miracles  and  prophecies  came  to  be  the 
natural  flower  of  a  Personality  who  had  made  himself  so 
real  and  had  created  such  a  gospel  in  Vian's  soul.  He 
often  asked  in  after  years  that  his  tomb  should  bear  this 
inscription  :  "  He  hath  the  witness  in  himself." 

It  is  spring-time  again,  but  it  is  also  1535  ;  and  we  are 
in  the  presence  of  two  men,  —  one  a  man  of  near  middle 
age,  whose  brown  hair  has  streaks  of  gray,  whose  fore- 
head is  even  now  seamed  with  two  wrinkles  which  tell 
the  tale  of  anxiety  and  hope,  whose  clothing  is  but  a  re- 
cent purchase  by  means  of  coins  earned  in  the  autumn  pre- 
ceding, at  service  under  a  respectable  vintner,  and  whose 
heart  is  still  full  of  hope  ;  the  other  is  now  old  and  feeble, 
his  sunken  cheeks  denoting  disease,  his  eye  still  keen 
and  restless,  his  head  tremulous,  and  his  conversation 
threading  the  years  of  his  own  past  and  the  possibilities 
of  his  guest's  future. 


MONK'  AND  KNIGI/T. 

One  is  Vian;  the  other  i'is  of  Rotterdam. 

They  are  in  Basle ;  the  Rhine  gleams  t\vo  hundred  feet 
below  the  terrace.  Limes  and  chestnut-trees  have  sifted 
the  radiance  which  falls  upon  the  paths  which  run  toward 
the  cathedral ;  and  the  old  scholar,  leaning  hard  upon  the 
arm  of  his  friend,  has  just  promised  him,  as  they  look 
down  upon  the  boats,  that  the  letter  to  Henry  VI II., 
which  he  has  written  for  him,  will  certainly  admit  him  at 
once  to  the  king's  service. 

"  It  is  a  small  payment  toward  the  debt  I  owe  to  you 
for  the  Virgil  manuscript,"  said  Erasmus.  "  May  Heaven 
give  you  Alke  ! " 

The  coins  which  Erasmus  left  with  little  Alke  many 
years  before  were  sufficient  to  have  identified  Vian,  if  the 
scholar  had  not  known  and  believed  him  at  the  first. 

Vian's  tale  made  him  a  hero  to  the  illustrious  man. 

Erasmus  had  detailed  to  him  every  circumstance  which 
had  wrought  such  changes  in  England  as  would  make  Vian 
welcome.  Henry's  rebellion  against  the  Pope  ;  the  mar- 
riage to  Anne  Boleyn  ;  his  need  of  such  help  as  Vian  might 
give  to  the  colleges,  —  these  overshadowed  the  axe  which 
had  beheaded  Thomas  More,  and  the  terror  by  which 
Thomas  Cromwell  ruled.  Erasmus  could  not  detain  Yian, 
much  as  he  loved  him  ;  and  on  the  following  day  he  bade 
him  farewell. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

AT   COURT   AGAIN. 

We  are  never  without  a  pilot.  When  we  know  not  how  to  steer,  and 
dare  not  hoist  a  sail,  we  can  drift.  The  current  knows  the  way,  though  we 
do  not.  —  EMERSON, 

IT  was  near  the  close  of  the  year  1535,  when  Vian  en- 
tered again  into  the  service  of  the  English  crown. 
Before  1529  Wolsey  was  manager  of  the  crown;  since 
1529  Henry  himself  had  worn  it. 

Even  Anne  Boleyn,  queen  and  beautiful  woman,  wel- 
comed the  returning  exterminator  of  the  Waldensians  back 
to  court  with  the  words,  — 

"  You  have  been  a  long  while  from  us,  and  I  fear  the 
Waldensians  still  exist  to  trouble  his  Holiness." 

"  Your  gracious  Majesty,"  replied  Vian,  with  graceful 
courtesies,  "  the  severest  trouble  of  his  Holiness  is  not 
with  the  Waldensians,  but  rather  with  your  royal  husband. 
As  for  the  Waldensians  —  "  Vian  was  about  to  say  that  he 
hoped  at  least  one  of  them  still  lived  and  loved  him. 
The  ringing  laugh  of  the  queen  and  the  silence  of  Vian's 
aching  heart  showed  him  how  nearly  together  humor  and 
sorrow  lie  in  the  human  soul  and  its  experiences. 

The  main  facts  of  the  recent  history  of  the  English 
court  had  come  to  Vian  from  Erasmus  at  Basle.  His 
new  point  of  view  had  not  diminished  his  interest  in  the 
trifles  which  associated  themselves  with  events  so  deci- 


MOXK  AND  K'XIGIIT. 

sive  ;  and  his  old  friends  —  the  retainers  of  Wolsey,  whom 
Henry  VIII.  had  spared  or  invited  into  the  royal  sen-ice 
vied  with  one  another  in  offering,  as  commodities  ser- 
viceable in  interesting  converse,  their  accounts  of  Wol- 
sey, Anne  Boleyn,  and  the  Pope,  in  exchange  for  the 
meagre  sentences  which  allowed  their  eyes  to  look  in 
upon  the  country  of  the  Waldensians,  the  struggles  of  a 
soul  amid  the  Alps,  the  last  days  of  Master  Erasmus  at 
Basle. 

The  story  of  the  most  trusted  retainer  was  a  very  sad 
one. 

On  the  very  day  in  September,  1529,  upon  which  Vian, 
having  left  England  to  arrange  for  the  destruction  of  re- 
calcitrant Waldensians,  was  extracting  some  interesting 
opinions  from  the  papal  nuncio  at  Dover,  Henry  VIII. 
had  left  Woodstock  for  Grafton  in  Northamptonshire. 
At  the  former  place,  for  more  than  a  fortnight,  the  king 
had  hunted  stags  with  Anne  Boleyn,  over  the  same  terri- 
tory upon  which  another  Henry  had  pursued  with  suc- 
cess the  affections  of  the  sweet  Rosamond.  At  the  latter 
place,  September  19,  his  Majesty  was  staying  with  Anne 
Boleyn,  talking  over  with  her  the  already  deep  disgrace 
into  which  the  illustrious  cardinal  had  fallen. 

"  I  love  you,  sweetheart,  full  well ;  but  I  cannot  en- 
tirely discard  so  great  a  mind,"  said  the  king,  who  already 
knew  that  Norfolk  and  Suffolk  together  would  make  but 
a  pygmy  compared  with  the  able  but  fallen  statesman. 

"  No,  my  love  and  king  !  but  cardinals  such  as  Wol- 
sey are  not  free  from  the  sentiment  of  revenge,"  an- 
swered Anne  Boleyn,  who  was  quite  sure  that  her  royal 
lover  had  a  lingering  affection  for  one  who  had  fallen  be- 
cause he  had  served  his  master  too  loyally,  and  whom 
she  desired  her  lover  should  hate  or  despise. 

"I  fear  not!"  cried  Henry  VIII.,  with  a  sharpness 
which  Anne  Boleyn  never  forgot,  until  she  too  had  fallen 
under  that  same  haughty  displeasure,  —  "1  fear  not !  I 


AT  COURT  AGAIN.  3 1 1 

i.eed  him  not.  Some  one  else  shall  found  the  universi- 
ties, if  the  revenues  of  abbeys  are  to  be  converted  into 
scholars.  The  cardinal's  secretary  shall  be  the  king's 
secretary.  I  shall  distrust  Cromwell  and  Gardiner  no 
more." 

The  latter  remark  was  especially  pleasing  to  Anne 
Boleyn,  for  Sir  Thomas  and  Norfolk  had  each  expressed 
their  admiration  for  his  parts ;  and  now  that  the  king 
had  distinctly  substituted  Gardiner  for  Wolsey  in  his 
confidence,  she  believed  all  would  go  well. 

Before  this,  Wolsey,  who  knew  full  well  that  his  end 
was  nigh  at  hand,  had  solaced  himself  with  the  thought 
that  in  sending  Vian  upon  such  a  mission  he  had  at  least 
commended  himself  to  the  favor  of  the  Pope.  Cam- 
peggio,  who  saw  the  cardinal  September  14,  had  assured 
him  that  his  Holiness  could  not  forget  such  an  act  of 
loyalty,  even  though  it  came  from  his  Grace  in  an  hour 
of  great  extremity. 

Vian  had  not  touched  the  soil  of  France  before  he  was 
informed  that  Queen  Katherine  herself  knew  of  the  dis- 
grace of  the  cardinal. 

"  The  ship  is  now  in  a  storm  which  will  plunge  sailors 
and  passengers  to  the  bottom.  Everybody  is  seeking  a 
means  of  escape.  The  cardinal  expects  to  be  forsaken  ; 
the  time-servers  will  refuse  to  go  down  in  the  wreck." 
This,  also,  the  nuncio  had  said  to  Vian  at  Calais. 

"  Would  I  were  with  him  !  "  was  Vian's  reply,  as  he  had 
looked  back  toward  England. 

"  No,"  said  the  nuncio,  earnestly ;  "  his  friend  and 
servant  could  not  otherwise  be  so  valuable  to  his  failing 
fortunes  as  in  doing  what  will  commend  his  Eminence 
to  the  Pope." 

Vian  had  felt,  even  then,  that  somehow  the  issue  was 
not  going  to  be  a  great  triumph  for  either  himself  or  the 
cardinal. 

Before  Vian  had  advanced  a  single  step  on  that  jour- 


312  MONK  AND  KNIGHT 

ney  toward  San  Michele,  even  the  servants  of  Wolsey 
were  made  certain  that  all  was  lost.  The  court  was  a 
thing  of  the  past;  the  commission  of  the  legates  was  re- 
voked ;  Parliament  was  sure  to  impeach  Wolsey.  Noth- 
ing valuable  was  left.  He  had  often  looked  upon  the  ad- 
vance of  the  Reformation  with  favor ;  now  the  fact  of  its 
progress  held  within  it  no  comfort  for  him,  for  his  most 
trusted  servant,  Vian,  was,  at  the  moment  of  the  disaster, 
on  his  way  to  crush  it  among  the  prophets,  —  the 
Waldensians. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  even  his  Holiness  will  look  favor- 
ably upon  me  now,"  said  the  tottering  minister,  as  he 
grasped  this  solitary  pilhr  of  power. 

On  Sunday  morning,  September  19,  Cardinal  Wol- 
sey and  Cardinal  Campeggio  stood  before  the  gates  of 
Woodstock.  Only  a  single  lodging  was  prepared,  and 
this  was  for  Campeggio.  However,  Henry  Morris,  groom 
of  the  stole  to  the  king,  provided  for  Wolsey.  Then 
came  the  interview  with  the  superseded  court.  Norfolk 
insulted,  and  Anne  Boleyn  reproached,  the  mighty  ruin. 
Henry  VIII.,  however,  seemed  to  feel  the  dignity  of  such 
an  august  personality,  when  alone  he  stood  with  the  man 
who  had  served  him  with  such  incomparable  ability,  at 
the  large  window,  and  in  low  tones  discoursed  of  things 
past  and  to  come.  When  at  night  Wolsey  took  his  way 
toward  Master  Empson's  house,  the  wrath  of  Anne  Bo- 
leyn and  that  of  Norfolk,  who  suspected  that  the  cardinal 
was  restored  to  the  confidence  of  the  king,  knew  no 
bounds. 

The  next  day,  instead  of  meeting  at  Woodstock  this 
man  of  eminent'  genius,  as  he  had  promised,  the  King  of 
England  rode  with  Anne  Boleyn  to  behold  a  piece  of 
ground  which  she  desired  to  have  for  a  new  park.  Now 
Wolsey's  heart  was  riven.  Soon  Campeggio  was  at  Dover, 
pausing  on  his  way  to  Rome  ;  and  at  the  hour  when  Wul- 
sey's  beloved  servant,  Vian  of  Glastonbury,  was  uttering 


AT  COURT  AGAIN.  313 

love's  sweetest  and  most  broken  accents  to  a  Waldensian 
maiden,  Oct.  9,  1529,  the  greatest  man  of  politics  in  the 
sixteenth  century  had  just  forsaken  his  magnificent  train 
and  the  glittering  insignia  of  office,  with  which,  but  a  few 
hours  before,  he  had  left  Westminster  Hall  for  the  last 
time,  and  was  writing  a  piteous  letter  in  which  he  called 
himself,  in  words  which  upon  the  written  page  seem  yet 
to  tingle  with  agony:  "Your  Grace's  most  prostrate, 
poor  chaplain,  creature,  and  bedesman,  T.  Card.  Ebor. 
Miserrimus." 

That  sickening  signature  was  read  at  the  conclusion  of 
a  letter  which  was  addressed  to  Henry  VIII.,  which  any 
student  of  English  State  papers  will  find  in  part  as 
follows  :  — 

"  Surely,  most  gracious  king,  the  remembrance  of  my  folly, 
with  the  sharp  sword  of  your  Highness'  displeasure,  hath  so 
penetrate  my  heart  that  I  cannot  but  lamentably  cry  .  .  .  and 
say,  '  Sufficit ;  nunc  contine,  piissime  rex,  manum  tuam.'  " 

At  length,  at  Leicester  Abbey  gates,  November  26, 
the  pitiable  cardinal  stood,  saying,  "  Father  Abbot,  I  am 
come  hither  to  leave  my  bones  among  you  ;  "  and  three 
days  afterward,  the  man  who  had  breathed  into  the  island 
the  spirit  which  has  made  the  Englishman  of  to-day  self- 
respectful,  had  closed  his  lips  forever. 

Over  and  over  again  had  his  old  friends  at  Whitehall 
told  this  story  to  Vian.  It  never  failed  to  interest  him, 
though  his  position  was  changed. 

Of  course  he  eagerly  devoured  everything  which  helped 
to  complete  the  picture  which  was  making  in  his  mind 
of  the  fall  of  the  great  cardinal,  the  advance  of  Thomas 
Cromwell,  and  the  development  of  the  plan  of  breaking 
up  the  monasteries,  to  which  now  he  was  more  attached 
than  ever  before  ;  for  the  future  was  widening  out  of  that 
immediate  past.  He  soon  found  out  that  his  sovereign 
Henry  VIII.,  who  had  welcomed  him  most  heartily  into 


314 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 


his  service,  looked  upon  the  dissolution  of  the  abbeys  and 
other  religious  houses,  not  simply  as  an  event  most  desir- 
able for  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  into  whose  treasuries 
Wolsey  had  proposed  to  divert  the  revenues,  but  rather 
as  an  event  which  would  so  enlarge  other  personal  privi- 
leges, and  further  convince  the  Papal  See,  against  which 
His  Majesty  had  rebelled,  that  England  would  make  her- 
self absolutely  independent  of  a  distinctively  Romish 
policy. 

"  England  against  Rome,"  said  Vian.  He  could  not 
help  thinking  again  of  the  Wycliffite  letters.  "  Ah  !  " 
thought  he,  "  I  shall  hunt  Hampton  Court  over  and  over 
again,  if  need  be.  for  those  letters ;  and  I  shall  show  his 
Majesty  that  the  heretic  Wycliffe  believed  in  England  as 
ruled  by  Englishmen." 

Before  many  days  Vian  had  found  an  opportunity  to 
read  what  he  would  never  have  thought  of  reading  to 
Henry  VIII.,  when,  years  ago,  he  was  laboring  with  the 
king  upon  the  attack  upon  Luther.  IIU  Majesty  was  de- 
lighted to  get  the  fresh,  sinewy  phrases  with  which  Wyc- 
liffe had  combated  the  hierarchical  notion  of  the  State. 
"By  my  troth,"  said  Henry,  as  he  read  Wyclifie's  deliv- 
erances against  papistical  assumption,  "  he  was  a  bold  and 
just  disputer.  Would  that  he  were  alive  at  this  hour! 
There  be  none  so  powerful  as  he  in  England,  else  I  had 
not  struggled  so  long  alone." 

"Your  Majesty  will  let  me  say  that  Master  John  Wyc- 
liffe was  in  no  wise  more  bold  or  more  true  than  the  fol- 
lowers of  Peter  Waldo,  whom  I  went  to  kill.  Ah,  my 
king  !  I  am  right  glad  these  hands  shed  none  of  that 
heroic  blood." 

Henry  VIII.  was  all  attention  ;  but  Vian,  thinking  it 
less  serviceable  to  his  cause  to  tell  the  story  and  repeat  the 
faith  of  the  Waldensians,  than  to  appeal  to  the  reason 
of  the  king  on  another  and  more  practical  matter,  t«.nk 
a  turn  quite  unexpected  to  his  royal  liMem  r.  ••  My 


AT  COURT  AGAIN.  315 

king,"  said  Vian,  with  persuasive  force,  "Master  John 
Wycliffe  coupled  his  notion  of  a  freed  nation  with  his  la- 
bors for  an  open  Bible.  Never  can  the  fancied  authority 
of  the  Pope  be  so  easily  resisted  as  by  the  spread  of  Bible 
reading  in  England." 

"  But,"  laughed  the  haughty  king,  "  did  we  not  allow 
them  to  burn  the  books  of  William  Tyndale,  the  transla- 
tor of  the  Scriptures,  when  you  were  with  Wolsey  at 
Hampton  Court  ?  Have  we  not  prohibited  the  reading 
of  these  Bibles?" 

"  Alas,  yes  !  I  knew  not  the  worth  of  Scripture 
then,  your  Majesty ;  and  had  I  known  it,  I  could  not 
have  prevented  it.  It  does  argue  great  changes  to  think 
of  your  Majesty's  court  aiding  a  translation  of  the  Bible 
for  your  common  subjects.  But,  my  king,  you  do  not 
fear  being  inconsistent?  Is  it  not  true  that  we  were 
once  humble  suppliants  at  the  Pope's  feet?  Now  your 
Majesty  governs  his  own  realm.  Two  years  since,  our 
Master  Hugh  Latimer  was  forbidden  to  preach  in  Lon- 
don ;  now  we  salute  him  as  Bishop  of  Worcester." 

The  king  smiled,  as  if  he  would  sayj  "  When  you  left  us, 
Vian,  our  queen  was  Katherine  of  Arragon ;  now  she  is 
Anne  Boleyn." 

Vian's  struggle  in  the  mountains  had  made  him  bold. 
Life  was  going  rapidly  enough,  as  his  heart  knew.  He 
cared  nothing  whatever  about  Henry's  divorce.  He  was 
happy  in  the  king's  assertion  of  what  Vian  called  "  the 
English  spirit,"  from  whatever  cause  that  assertion  came. 
He  had  but  one  other  desire  which  Henry  VIII.  could 
further  toward  fruition,  —  to  realize  as  far  as  he  might 
that  dream  which  years  before  had  come  to  him  at  Glas- 
tonbury,  —  England  possessed  of  an  unchained  Bible. 

Vian  now  knew  perfectly  well  that  if  the  Bible  were  to 
be  sent  into  English  homes  at  all,  it  must  come  to  court 
with  very  different  associations  from  those  it  brought  in 
1526,  under  Tyndale.  The  change  of  position  toward  the 


316  MO\A  MGHT. 

papacy  on  the  part  of  Henry  VIII.  had  not  made  the 
king  or  his  courtiers  more  favorable  to  Lutheranism  or 
disorder.  Wolsey  had  died  warning  England  against 
Lutheranism  and  a  peasant  war. 

In  1526  Tyndale's  translation  of  the  New  Testament, 
with  the  sheets  of  which  he  had  escaped  to  Luther's  city  of 
Worms,  had  appeared  in  England,  with  the  word  "  elder  " 
instead  of  "  priest,"  and  "  congregation "  instead  of 
"church."  Now,  m  1535,  Vian  saw  that  Henry  VIII., 
who  had  made  himself  head  of  the  Church  of  I. upland, 
was  certainly  not  more  favorable  than  then  to  any  novel 
ideaofecclesiasticism.  Besides,  Vian  i  red  that  in 

1526  six  thousand  copies  of  Tyndale's  translation  came 
back  to  England  accompanied  with  Wycliffe's  tracts  ;  and 
although  Vian  had  showed  Henry  VIII.  that  \\  v<  li: 
a  sort  of  prophet  of  his  Majesty  in  asserting  England's 
self-respect  as  against  the  Pope,  he  still  remembered  that 
there  were  many  other  Wycliffite  notions  to  which  the 
king  would  never  assent.  More  —  Vian's  own  great  friend, 
Sir  Thomas  More,  —  oh,  what  a  clouded  memory  ht 
to  Vian!  —  had  made  impossible  the  success  of  Tyn- 
dale's translation  in  1526.  Now,  England  and 
were  to  know  him  no  longer;  for  he  had  perished  in  his 
opposition  to  the  king  but  a  few  months  before.  And  so 
strangely  does  a  mind  which  is  set  upon  certain  ideas 
destroy  its  vision  for  anything  else,  that  the  king  had  lit- 
tle difficulty  in  convincing  Vian,  who  sorely  lamented 
More's  death,  that  the  great  lawyer  who  had  long  ago  be- 
come an  opponent  of  an  open  Bible,  had  at  length  be- 
come an  opponent  of "  the  English  spirit,"  which  Vian 
had  caught  from  Wycliffe  and  which  he  now  found  in 
Henry  himself. 

The  universitie  for  whose  support  the  monasteries  must 
be  sacrificed,  were  with  the  king ;  the  possibility  of  the 
realization  of  Vian's  hope  of  a  Bible  for  the  common 
people  was  with  the  king ;  the  spirit  of  national  indcpen- 


AT  COURT  AGAIN.  3.17 

dence  of  the  Pope  was  with  the  king.  It  was  an  age  of 
lights  and  shadows.  Vian  forgot  to  note  the  ambition  or 
cruelty  of  Cromwell,  or  the  terror  by  which  Henry  ruled 
the  people.  He  was  intent  on  these  three  ends,  and  so 
Vian  was  himself  with  the  king. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  he,  to  a  friendly  officer-at-arms,  who 
had  himself  assisted  at  their  destruction,  —  "I  am  sure  that 
things  may  be  managed  so  well  that  we  shall  never  again 
behold  a  burning  of  Bibles  at  St.  Paul's  Cross.  His 
Grace  the  Archbishop  Cranmer  and  —  I  have  almost 
called  him  Master  Hugh  Latimer  —  and  the  Bishop  of 
Worcester  will  see  to  it.  Ah  !  I  knew  a  printer  —  " 

Vian  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  of  that  printer, 
for  he  was  none  other  than  Alke's  father,  Caspar  Perrin. 
He  walked  forth  dazed  with  the  idea  that  the  man  whose 
closing  life  longed  to  identify  itself  with  the  printing  of 
the  Bible  might  have  this  streak  of  splendor  in  its  sunset. 
But  his  mind  could  not  dwell  upon  Caspar.  It  soon 
rushed  to  Alke,  —  that  bloody  floor,  and  her  face  radiant 
with  whiteness,  —  the  agonizing  farewell. 

Vian  was  living  over  again  that  night  of  love  and  fear 
and  that  fateful  day  of  murder  and  separation,  when  he 
was  summoned  into  the  king's  presence. 

"  Once  more,"  quoth  the  sovereign,  "  I  am  determined 
to  spare  no  effort,  my  loyal  and  trusty  Vian."  The  king's 
eyes  sparkled  with  a  light  such  as  Vian  used  to  behold  in 
them  when  they  were  collaborators  on  the  book  against 
Luther. 

The  character  of  the  light  seemed  the  same,  but  upon 
what  a  different  task  was  Vian  now  to  be  called  ! 

The  king  dropped  his  crimson  robe,  and  placed  his 
bonnet,  which  shone  with  rubies  and  diamonds,  by  its 
side ;  as  he  continued :  "  Scholars  are  a  strange  folk. 
More  than  once  have  I  asked  the  illustrious  Philip  Me- 
lancthon  of  Wittenberg  to  be  our  teacher  at  Oxford  ; 
but  he  has  not  been  willing.  Our  book  against  Luther 


318  MOXK  AND  KXIGHT. 

must  have  frightened  him.  Perhaps  he  knows  now  that 
we  have  no  Pope  ruling  in  Kngland.  I  am  about  to  bid 
you  go  and  fetch  him.  Use  all  decent  persuasion,  \ 
for  my  bonnet  yonder  would  not  purchase  him.  You* 
who  never  killed  a  Waldensian  "  —  the  king  smiled  upon 
Vian — "may  yet  get  Philip  Melancthon  in  your  tether." 

With  the  blessing  of  the  Primate  of  all  Kngland,  and 
the  promise  of  investiture  with  the  Order  of  the  Garter, 
Vian  set  out  for  Wittenberg. 

"  You  are  not  a  knight  such  as  those  whose  legs  bore 
the  leathern  band  in  Palestine  ;  but  I  am  as  powerful  as 
Richard,  even  he  of  the  Lion  Heart,  and  I  swear  to  you 
the  garter  if  you  have  happy  issue  for  my  scheme." 

These  words  followed  Vian  all  the  way  to  Wittenberg. 
But  before  him  was  the  vision  of  his  little  mate  at  Lutter- 
worth ;  and  by  day  and  night  it  never  left  the  sky  save 
when  the  memory  of  Alke  took  its  place. 


/'  Ifc- 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

AN   UNEXPECTED    MEETING. 

The  heart  is  a  small  thing,  but  desireth  great  matters.  It  is  not  suffi- 
cient for  a  kite's  dinner,  yet  the  whole  world  is  not  sufficient  for  it.  — 

QUARLES. 

THE  dull  and  sleepy  town  of  Wittenberg  had  hardly 
made  itself  ready  for  the  glowing  daytime  which 
was  overspreading  its  towers  and  streets,  when,  by  the  aid 
of  a  light  which  poured  into  one  of  the  little  upper  win- 
dows of  a  room  in  Philip  Melancthon's  home,  a  man, 
whose  face  bore  signs  of  his  having  come  close  upon 
middle  life,  roused  from  his  sleep,  took  from  his  wallet  a 
letter,  which  was  in  the  handwriting  of  Erasmus  of  Rot- 
terdam, and  began  to  read,  as  he  had  done  the  day 
before  many  times.  It  was  dated  at  Basle.  The  letter 
was  addressed  to  Caspar  Perrin.  These  were  some  of 
the .  fragments  upon  which  his  eyes  remained  in  fixed 
gaze  :  — 

"  My  own  life  is  near  its  close.  I  can  do  little  more.  Well 
do  I  remember  when  your  hospitable  kindness  took  me  into 
your  cottage.  It  must  be  more  than  twenty  years  since  you 
told  me  that  I  had  loosened  an  avalanche.  Surely  your 
words  were  wise.  Even  now  we  know  not  where  the  ava- 
lanche may  stop.  Luther  is  contumacious  and  violent,  and 
in  England  the  king  is  head  of  the  Church  .  .  .  One  thing  I 
may  do  —  ay,  two  things  —  even  yet.  I  thank  you  for  the 
manuscript  of  Virgil.  It  is  better  in  my  hands  than  in  the 


-  AND  A-.VA///T: 


320 

hand  of  the  Capuchins.  ...  I  know  thi-  tonish  you. 

\Vhere  did  I  obtain  it  ?  .  .  One  night  ...  he  came 
to  my  lodging  .  .  .  very  ragged  and  weary.  I  recognized 
him  at  once  .  .  .  long,  brown  hair,  and  noble  grace  of  man- 
ner. ...  It  was  Vian,  whom  as  a  boy  I  had  known  at  Glas- 
tonbury  Abbey  .  .  .  the  whole  story  of  his  love  .  .  .  had 
placed  the  manuscript  next  his  heart.  The  parchment  saved 
his  life.  He  had  made  me  sure  with  the  coins,  which  I  re- 
member giving  to  your  child  .  .  .  love  for  Alke  kno 
boundaries.  I  pitied  him,  and  asked  much  concerning  his 
years  in  the  mountains  ...  by  faith  a  thorough  Proti 
—  not  like  Luther,  but  like  Melancthon  .  .  .  influence  with  the 
King  of  England,  to  whom  I  sent  Vian.  Henry  VI 1 1.  has  so 
changed  his  ideas  with  respect  to  the  Pope  that  Vian  will  be 
welcomed  to  his  service  .  .  .  badly  wounded,  yet  Vian  did 
not  appear  to  cherish  a  tithe  of  resentment  against  his  assail- 
ant .  .  .  piteously  said  to  me,  •  May  (iod  grant  I  did  not 
kill  Ami  !  I  never  had  done  him  harm.  He  could  not  re- 
main even  as  a  prisoner  in  the  presence  of  my  sweet  Alke 
without  being  brought  to  the  Saviour.'  May  this  letter,  my 
last  to  any,  find  you  in  good  health." 

Philip  Melancthon  summoned  his  guest  to  the  morning 
meal  at  the  moment  when  he  was  lying  there,  reading 
the  last  sentences  over  and  over  again.  This  letter  had 
already  thrown  a  bow  of  hope  over  Alke's  storm-covered 
life. 

That  guest  in  the  room  at  Melancthon's  house  was 
Ami  Perrin,  the  Waldensian,  who  had  already  been  with 
Melancthon  for  a  fortnight,  and  had  been  asked  to  become 
secretary  to  the  Reformer. 

What  was  Ami  doing  in  Wittenberg? 

Since  his  return  from  Bologna,  from  which  city  he  was 
fleeing  when  we  last  saw  him,  he  had  taken  his  place  as 
the  strongest  adviser  of  the  Barbes  of  the  valleys ;  and 
he  was  now  on  an  embassy  from  the  synod  just  held  at 
San  Jean,  to  consult  with  Philip  Mdamthon  with  regard 
to  the  attitude  of  the  mountaineers  toward  the 
Reformation  under  William  Farel  and  Zwingli.  Alke,  who 


VLJ          /^    /I 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING.  32! 

had  through  these  years  conducted  the  correspondence 
of  the  Waldensians  with  Zwingli,  Farel,  and  Luther,  had 
not  needed  to  ask  Ami  to  take  with  him  the  letter  from 
Erasmus  when  Ami  set  out  for  Wittenberg,  for  Ami  knew 
her  thoughts,  and  for  his  own  soul's  sake  he  desired  to 
find  news  of  Vian. 

"  I  may  get  some  news  of  him  from  England  through 
Philip  Melancthon,"  said  the  loyal  brother,  who  had 
pledged  his  soul  to  omit  nothing  which  by  any  chance 
could  bring  Alke's  lover  to  this  widowed  soul. 

"  God  bless  you,  Ami !  "  she  had  answered  with  trem- 
bling hopefulness. 

That  word,  that  face,  that  hopeful  kiss  of  Alke's,  which, 
as  she  touched  Ami's  lips  with  hers,  seemed  anxious  for 
only  Vian's  lips  again,  had  followed  him  ;  and  on  the  day 
of  which  we  write  in  Wittenberg,  even  before  the  noon 
had  looked  down  into  the  struggling  old  streets,  there 
had  entered  into  that  quaint  gabled  house,  which  is  still 
pointed  out  to  tourists  in  Old  College  Street,  the  man 
whom  Ami  had  wronged,  whom  he  had  tried  to  murder, 
who  had  once  prevented  him  from  murdering  his  own 
sister,  —  Alke's  beloved  Vian. 

In  the  great  arch  at  that  historic  window  Ami  was 
soon  telling  Melancthon  such  a  tale  of  love,  remorse, 
hatred,  and  hope  as  the  gentle  Reformer  had  never 
heard.  For  Ami  at  once  had  recognized  Vian,  as  he 
looked  down  into  the  street  and  beheld  the  English  gen- 
tlemen at  the  master's  door.  Instantly  the  Waldensian, 
who  knew  the  gravity  of  the  crisis,  and  who  had  uncon- 
sciously assumed  the  spirit  and  attitude  of  a  French 
knight,  had  begged  Melancthon  to  delay  introducing 
him  to  the  special  messenger  of  Henry  VIII.  until  he 
should  have  an  opportunity  of  explaining  the  difficulties 
of  the  situation. 

"  Catherine,  gentle  one  !  "  said  the  Reformer  to  his 
wife,  who  was  passing  into  another  apartment,  "you 
VOL.  n.  —  21 


322  AfONA'  AXD   A'.\7G//T. 

must  hear  this  strange  story  ; "  and  handing  her  the  letter 
of  Erasmus,  Mehnrthon  asked  Ami  to  tell  the  story 
But  as  the  Waldensian  began  again,  the  excitement  of  his 
mind  was  too  intense. 

"  Perhaps  you  know  what  is  sufficient  to  allow  me,  at 
all  costs,  to  make  reparation  to  a  wronged  man,  even  in 
your  house.     Oh,  this  mighty  moment  :      Believe  m 
friends,  not  even  my  own  concern   to  do  righteor. 
unto  Vian  is  equal  to   my  anxiety  to  tell  him  of  Alke's 
abiding  love      God  help  me  !  " 

"  God  guide  thee  !  "  said  Catherine  Melanrthon. 

Ami  had  asked  to  meet  \  ie.     The    rain 

falling  in  torrents  without,  and  now  and  then  a  thunder- 
peal shook  the  town.  Darkness  had  so  t  pread 
the  sky  that  Catherine  and  her  ser  <1  lit  the 
lights  within  the  room  opposite  the  apartment  for  study. 
Luther's  Bible  lay  on  the  little  table ;  and  a  print 
which  represented  the  l>old  fare  of  the  Reformer  hung 
over  the  open  fireplace,  in  which  fagots  were  burning 
brightly. 

The  introduction  which  Melancthon  proposed  was  un- 
neceosary,  and  was  never  entirely  spoken.  Vi.in 
knowing  that  Ami  was  alive,  having  no  such  clear  mem- 
ory of  him  as  that  of  his  L."  le  face,  having 
been  for  all  these  years  the  victim  of  his  horrible  fears, 
exclaimed,  "  Ami !  " 

The  Waldensian,  not  knowing  but  that  his  first  word 
would  tear  the  hope  from  his  sister's  soul,  and  certain 
only  of  this  that  he  had  cruelly  wronged  Vian,  trembled 
from  head  to  foot  as  he  uttered  the  one  word  "  Vian  :  " 

Gratitude   so  throbbed  in  each  voice  that  the  . 
between  them  was  half  bridged. 

"  What !   have    you  come    to    curse    me,  —  me,    who 
never  wronged  you?"  said  the  Knglishman,  who  stepped 
into  the  full  firelight,  his  doublet  of  velvet  showing  an  in 
wrought  design  which  involved  the  arms  of  Saint  George, 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING.  323 

and  his  face,  in  which  Ami  had  a  far  graver  Interest, 
becoming  the  playground  of  agitating  memories  and 
passions. 

"  No,"  said  Ami,  once  more  as  knightly  as  of  old ;  "  I, 
who  have  wronged  you,  have  besought  this  interview  —  " 

A  thunder-peal  crashed  above  the  house,  and  Vian 
heard  not  the  next  words.  The  lightning  which  had  pre- 
ceded it  was  not  more  brilliant  than  was  the  emerald  ring 
which  alone  gave  Ami's  dress  a  reminiscence  of  days  at 
court. 

"  I  offer  you  the  hand  and  heart  of  a  Christian,"  said 
he,  advancing  toward  Vian. 

"Without  a  stain  of  jealousy  upon  them?"  asked  the 
other. 

"  Even  thus -unspotted,"  replied  Ami,  whose  plain  cos- 
tume made  his  manliness  appear  more  chivalric.  The 
meagre  garments  which  clothed  him,  the  white  radiance 
upon  his  sad  but  noble  face,  the  tears  which  glistened  in 
his  eyes  more  splendidly  than  did  the  jewels  on  Vian's 
collar,  the  solemn  grandeur  of  his  fine  voice,  had  gone  as 
one  sweet,  resistless  appeal  to  Vian's  heart. 

"I  can  trust  you,"  murmured  he,  as  responsive  tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  —  "I  can  trust  you  if  you  have  trusted 
Christ." 

"  With  everything,"  added  Ami,  as  Vian  grasped  his 
hand, —  "with  everything." 

"  There  is  one  thing  —  "  began  Vian,  unable  to  rein 
his  hope. 

"  Ah  !  there  are  many,"  interrupted  Ami,  whose  con- 
science must  be  heard,  though  every  voicing  memory 
should  first  cry  out  its  appeal. 

"  Only  one  thing !  "  said  Vian,  as  he  paused  and 
walked  to  the  window,  which  rattled  with  the  storm. 

"The  one  thing?"  observed  Ami.  "Yes;  do  you 
grant  me  pardon?" 

"  Ah,  knight !  friend  !  you  have  been  pardoned  long 


324  MOXK  A\D    K'XIGHT. 

since.     I  know  the  force  of  love's  current ;  I  have  thought 
that  if  I  were  once  - 

"  And  are  you  yet  a  lover?  " 

"  That  is  the  one  thing  !  "  cried  out  Vian  ;  "  and  I  —  " 

The  storm  without  was  furious.     An  uprooted  m  < 
thrown  against  the  house,  and  the  window  was  broken. 
Blinding  sheets  of  rain  filled  the  air  without,  and  the 
rain   was   blown    into   the    room;    but   they  heeded    it 
not. 

"  I  loved  the  Waldensian  maiden  whom  you  sought  to 
kill.  Forgive  me  !  She  loved  me  also." 

Vian's  eyes  glared  for  an  instant,  but  he  regained 
control.  He  kept  it  only  for  an  instant. 

"  My  sister,  Alke  !  "  exclaimed  Ami.  "  She  is  my 
own  sister !  " 

"  Wretch  !     But,  oh  !  did  you  —  " 

"  No ;  I  knew  not  my  own  sister.  Caspar  Perrin 
was  my  father,  is  my  father ;  and  Alke  —  " 

"What  bedlam  is  this?  "  said  Vian.  as  the  storm 
broke  in  upon  Ami's  words,  and  the  bewildered  mind  of 
Vian  struggled  in  the  darkness  which  Ami  had  created 
before  him. 

"  On  my  troth,  Ami,  you  have  her  eyes."  The  excited 
lover  looked  back  over  the  years  into  Alke's  eyes,  as  he 
gazed  into  Ami's.  "  On  my  life,  those  are  her  nostrils. 
Knight,  I  believe  it.  But  tell  me  —  " 

"  And  Alke  loves  you,  Vian,  —  loves  you  even  yet." 

The  door  was  opened  at  this  unpropitious  moment. 
Catherine,  —  always  a  good  housewife,  —  fearing  the 
desolation  of  such  a  storm,  entered  with  as  much  of  reti- 
cence and  courtesy  as  she  possessed  at  such  a  crisis; 
and  Ami  said  at  once,  — 

"  We  must  beg  pardon  for  our  loud  speech." 

"It  must  have  been  serious  talk  to  have  made  you 
careless  of  such  a  gale  as  never  before  swept  upon  Wit- 
tenberg," she  replied  ;  and  proceeding  to  ask  the  sen-ants 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING.  325 

to  repair  the  broken  window,  offered  Ami  and  Vian 
another  room. 

Neither  Vian  nor  Ami  cared  what  covered  the  floor  or 
adorned  the  walls  of  that  room.  The  conversation  had 
too  bold  a  current  to  feel  the  slightest  interruption.  Ami 
lost  no  time  in  telling  him  the  story  of  his  childhood  and 
capture,  his  conversion,  and  the  later  movements  in 
which  he  had  been  engaged  with  his  old  friend  William 
Farel. 

As  soon  as  Vian's  mind  had  grasped  the  main  points 
of  his  tale,  he  cut  short  every  detail,  and  begged  to  know 
all  about  Alke,  whom  he  felt  that  he  had  never  really 
loved  until  now.  Her  widowed  life,  her  unceasing  min- 
istry, her  passionate  love  for  Vian,  —  these  furnished  a 
theme  which  Ami  enlarged  upon  again  and  again.  Vian 
forgot  everything  about  the  gentlemen  of  Henry's  court, 
who  were  half  exhausted  in  waiting  below. 

Would  Melancthon  go  to  England?  Vian  did  not 
know  that  any  one  had  asked  him.  The  mind  of  this 
ambassador  to  the  Reformer  had  lost  sight  even  of 
Henry  VIII.  Alke  lived,  and  Alke  loved  him  ! 

Vian  was  now  to  proclaim  himself  a  knight  in  deed 
and  in  truth. 

"  Ami,  you  were  once  a  lover,"  said  he,  with  a  strange 
feeling  that  the  ground  upon  which  he  had  now  ventured 
was  once  dangerous  territory. 

"  I  am  a  lover,"  answered  Ami ;  and  the  emotions 
which  throbbed  in  his  heart  trembled  on  his  lips. 

"  May  I  ask  you  ?  —  oh,  I  shall  attempt  to  be  as 
knightly  as  you  have  been,  —  does  Astre"e  live?" 

Ami  was  almost  overborne.  His  own  sorrow  looked 
so  sad,  so  desperate  in  the  presence  of  Vian's  joy. 
The  old  days  of  Amboise  were  upon  him,  —  that  hour 
at  Chambord ;  the  struggle  in  the  stone  apartment ;  the 
quivering,  beautiful  woman,  who  clung  to  him  at  last  in 
spite  of  his  evil  heart. 


326  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  Oh,  Vian,"  he  sobbed,  "  she  believed  me  dead ;  so 
also  did  you?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Evil  days  came  upon  her.  She  had  no  confidence 
in  the  character  of  the  religious  houses  in  France.  She 
asked  to  be  taken  to  England,  and  is  now  in  a  nunnery 
in  Somerset." 

"  In  Somerset?  "  The  eyes  of  Vian  were  fixed  upon 
Ami's  lips. 

"  In  Somerset." 

"  Does  she  love  you  still?  " 

"  Ah,  Vian,  such  love  as  hers  never  dies." 

"By  the  power  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  by  my  soul, — 
give  me  your  hand,  Ami !  —  here  1  swear  —  and  I  can 
perform  it,  as  God  lives  in  heaven,  Ami  !  —  if  Astr£e 
loves  you  as  you  love  her,  she  shall  yet  be  yours." 

"  I  can  only  bring  to  you  her  who  waits  your  invita- 
tion, —  the  sweetest  of  sisters  —  " 

"Alke!  Alke!" 

"  I  shall  decline  to  become  secretary  to  Master  Me- 
lancthon.  I  am  away  to  the  mountains." 

"  And  I  first  to  the  throne  of  Henry  VIII.  and  then 
to  Somerset." 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

DELIVERANCE    AND     LOVE. 
Love  makes  all  things  possible.  —  SHAKSPEARE. 

HISTORICAL  students  —  and  those  who  care  nothing 
for  history  have  long  ago  deserted  us  —  know  that 
Henry  VIII.  was  compelled  to  see  Oxford  get  on  without 
Philip  Melancthon.  Let  us  add  that  Ami  never  became 
secretary  to  the  latter,  and  that  very  soon  after  the  event- 
ful day  at  Wittenberg,  Vian,  who  had  become  a  special 
commissioner  of  his  Majesty  for  the  suppression  of  the 
monasteries,  had  the  joy  of  presenting  at  court  his  wife 
Alke.  Ami  had,  by  Vian's  advice,  become  secretary  to 
Master  Miles  Coverdale,  in  whose  genius  and  industry 
Vian  had  at  length  so  led  the  court  to  repose  its  confi- 
dence that  before  many  months  an  authorized  translation 
of  the  Bible  should  be  the  possible  possession  of  every 
Englishman.  Long  since  Ami  and  Alke  had  learned 
Vian's  language  from  the  lips  of  their  father  Caspar  Per- 
rin,  who  many  years  before  at  the  printing-press  of  Aldus 
had  begun  its  study  with  diligence,  and  who  now,  a  most 
capable  printer  even  in  his  old  age,  had  been  of  the 
greatest  service  to  Miles  Coverdale  and  his  associates  in 
giving  excellence  to  the  type  in  which  the  Scriptures  were 
to  make  their  appearance. 

Caspar  Perrin  had,  with  Alke's  help,  made  the  drawing 
for   the  well-known  titlepage.      The   inscription,    "Thy 


328  MONK  AXD  KXIGHT. 

word  is  a  lantern  unto  my  feet,"  was  his  suggestion ;  and 
Alke  presented  his  Majesty  Henry  VIII.  with  the  con- 
ception beautifully  painted  on  parchment. 

Ami  had  redeemed  his  promise  at  Wittenberg.  Could 
it  be  that  the  eye  of  Vian  had  lost  its  vision  fqr  the  sep- 
arate personalities  whose  life  was  so  bound  up  with  his 
own,  in  the  perfect  happiness  he  had  found  with  Alke- 
or  in  his  interest  in  such  tasks  as  the  dissolution  of  the 
religious  houses  and  the  translation  of  the  Bible  ? 

One  who  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  go  with  Vian 
to  the  Abbey  of  Glastonbury  on  an  afternoon  in  1538, 
one  year  after  his  meeting  with  Ami  at  Wittenberg,  would 
have  discerned  within  his  conversation  another  plan, 
much  more  personal  than  any  of  these.  That  plan  in- 
volved the  future  joy  of  at  least  two  human  souls.  I  low 
could  this  man,  into  whose  mind  had  gone  the  far-reach- 
ing scheme  of  Henry  VIII.,  turn  aside  from  such 
concerns  to  attend  to  a  love-affair  between  Ami  and 
Astree?  The  only  answer  is  that  Vian  himself  was  living 
in  love's  paradise,  and  knew  something  of  the  pressure 
of  love's  commandments. 

Never  had  the  sixty  acres  of  magnificent  buildings 
which  constituted  the  stateliness  of  Glastonbury  seemed 
so  noble  and  impressive  as  they  did  to  Vian,  when  on 
that  afternoon  the  fine  sunlight  fell  upon  the  old 
man  walls,  and  the  shadows  of  the  fleecy  clouds  lazily 
moved  over  the  soft  green  turf. 

Here  he  had  doubted  and  wept  and  prayed ;  and  now 
the  whole  splendid  scene  had  become  but  an  antiquity, 
scarcely  more  potent  to  others  than  the  vanished  1 
in  which  the  Celtic  wanderers  appealed  to  Her,  or  the 
propitious  winds  which  wafted  hither  the  bark  of 
Joseph  and  his  company.     But  something  had  compelled 
him  to  look  ahead  as  he  had  seen  abbey  at  fall ; 

and  a  feeling  of  loyalty  to  the  old  walls  which  had  pro: 


DELIVERANCE  AND  LOVE.  329 

him  had  struggled  into  such  supremacy,  that,  when  it 
seemed  possible  that  Henry  VIII.  should  suppress  even 
the  most  noble  of  the  monasteries,  Vian  had  devised  the 
compromise  which  Parliament  had  adopted ;  and  Glas- 
tonbury  had  escaped.  He  was  glad  for  that  act  of  love 
to  the  old  abbey  as  he  climbed  Weary-all  Hill  and  looked 
once  more  upon  the  Glastonbury  Thorn.  The  white- 
throats  seemed  never  so  careless  of  their  notes,  which 
came  in  a  squawk  or  a  warble  ;  but  the  chiff- chaff's  tone 
was  as  mellow  as  the  sunshine  which  Vian  saw  enwrap- 
ping a  dark  brown  nightingale,  that  "  creature  of  a  fiery 
heart." 

"They  will  sing  over  the  ruins  at  no  distant  time," 
said  he,  sadly.  "  I  will  protect  these  walls  as  long  as  I 
may." 

The  tower  of  St.  Michael's  oratory,  which  still  rises 
upon  the  summit  of  Tor  Hill,  was  ivy-laden  and  sunlit. 

"  It  is  already  yesterday  gleaming  upon  St.  Michael's. 
Really  the  only  living  thing  is  the  ivy  which  clings  to  it. 
Perhaps  all  that  is  vital  about  any  of  these  institutions  is 
the  memory  or  the  love  which  covers  over  their  hardness 
and  unyielding  grace." 

Into  the  doorway  of  St.  Joseph's  chapel  he  looked,  and 
Abbot  Richard  Whiting  appeared. 

"  Ah,  Vian,  no  one  is  more  welcome  than  yourself  to 
these  venerable  walls.  You  have  protected  us  so  often 
and  so  surely  that  it  almost  makes  one  forgive  —  " 

"My  heresy,  Lord  Abbot,  is  not  beseeching  for- 
giveness." 

"  Nay,  we  are  the  suppliants  now,"  said  the  abbot, 
with  painful  regret.  "Things  have  gone  differently  in 
France." 

"France  has  declined  the  Reformation;  but" — and 
Vian's  prophetic  voice  almost  pronounced  the  doom 
which  history  has  chronicled.  For  France  indeed  did 
decline  the  Reformation ;  and  France  has  been  compelled 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

to  accept  the  Revolution.  1529-1789, — only  two  and 
one  half  centuries ;  and  the  world  was  taught  again  that 
statesmanship  is  the  art  of  finding  out  in  what  direction 
Almighty  God  is  going,  and  in  getting  things  out  of  His 
way. 

"  I  have,  as  his  Majesty's  special  commissioner,  a  mes- 
sage to  your  Lordship,"  said  Vian,  assuming  an  authority 
over  Richard  Whiting  which  his  heart  did  not  feel. 

The  abbot  read  the  document,  examined  the  seal,  and 
was  silent  while  Vian  proceeded,  — 

"You  must  understand  that  if,  by  i  ty's  kind- 

ness to  me,  I  am  able  to  postpone  the  suppression  of  this 
ancient  house  for  some  months,  it  must  be  because  I 
now  am  made  sure  of  the  discovery  and  release  of  this 
affrighted  sister  Emelie  under  the  Prioress  Katerine 
Bourgcher  of  Mynchin  Buckland  Priory  and  Preceptory. 
I  know  her  by  another  name.  I  must  not  be  discour- 
aged or  impeded.  I  can  save  this  abbey  for  months, 
perhaps,  if  the  release  is  obtained  at  on 

Still  the  abbot  said  nothing. 

"  The  authority  of  the  king  seems  cruel  to  you?  Ah  ! 
how  rapacious  have  been  the  ign«  ^tition 

which  have  grown  up  in  all  our  religious  houses  !  We 
shall  have  no  faith  in  England  if  we  depend  longer  upon 
the  incredible  and  the  false.  My  Ixml  Abbot  Richard 
Whiting,  what  think  you?  I  have  here  a  letter  from 
our  commission,  which  was  sent  to  Hailes." 

Vian  handed  to  Abbot  Richard  the  letter  which  now 
appears  in  the  Chapter- House  papers  in  the  State  Paper 
Offices. 

This  passage  even  to-day  arrests  the  eye  of  the  reader  : 

"  Sir,  we  have  been  bolting  and  sifting  the  Blood  of  Hailcs 
all  this  forenoon.     It  was  wondrously,  closely,  and  craftily 
inclosed  and  stopped  up,  for  taking  of  care.     And  it  cl< 
fast  to  the  bottom  of  the  little  glass  that  it  is  in.     And  verily 
it  seeineth  to  be  an  unctuous  gum  and  compound  of  many 


DELIVERANCE  AND  LOVE.  331 

things.  It  hath  a  certain  unctuous  moistness,  and  though  it 
seems  somewhat  like  blood  when  it  is  in  the  glass,  yet  when 
any  parcel  of  the  same  is  taken  out,  it  turneth  to  a  yellow- 
ness, and  is  cleaving  like  glue.  But  we  have  not  yet  exam- 
ined all  the  monks;  and  therefore  this  my  brother  abbot 
shall  tell  your  Lordship  what  he  hath  seen  and  heard  in  this 
matter.  And  in  the  end  your  Lordship  shall  know  altogether. 
But  we  perceive  not  by  your  commission  whether  we  shall 
send  it  up  or  leave  it  here,  or  certify  thereof  as  we  know." 

The  abbot  read,  and  saying  nothing,  handed  the  letter 
back  to  Vian,  who  continued  :  "  That  gum  in  the  phial 
was  offered  to  pilgrims  for  years  to  be  reverenced  as 
some  of  the  blood  of  Christ  which  fell  from  the  cross  of 
our  Lord.  English  manhood  can  never  build  itself  upon 
such  deceptions.  Our  commission  has  gone  to  Kent  and 
taken  the  Rood  of  Bexley." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  the  abbot,  "  it  is  sacrilege." 

"  Lord  Abbot,"  replied  Vian,  "  the  profanity  lies  in 
defending  such  a  fraud.  For  years  the  people  have 
beheld  its  bending  body,  its  twitching  forehead,  its  open- 
ing lips,  its  goggling  eyes.  Even  yesterday  did  GeofTry 
Chambers  tear  it  apart  at  Maidstone ;  and  before  the 
people  who  thronged  the  market  he  pulled  out  the  wires 
and  cords,  and  broke  the  wheels  within  it  to  pieces." 

"  Profanation  !  "  exclaimed  the  abbot. 

"  Oh,  England  must  be  purged  of  these  trickeries  of 
monks  !  Our  room  at  London  is  filled  with  the  villanous 
devices  with  which  our  monks  have  entrapped  the  people. 
His  Grace  hath  said  that  what  has  been  known  as  the 
blood  of  Saint  Thomas  at  Canterbury  is  only  red  ochre. 
We  have  collected  enough  pieces  of  wood,  each  of  which 
has  been  said  to  be  a  fragment  of  the  true  cross,  to  have 
made  a  great  tree.  The  end  is  near.  Our  sovereign 
may  displease  many  by  his  use  of  the  revenues ;  but  rich 
monks  must  release  lands  and  plate.  I  must  not  tarry ; 
this  abbey  has  my  pitiful  love.  As  I  have  said,  let  me 
find  the  woman  I  seek  —  " 


332 


MOXK  AND  KNIGHT. 


"  She  is  a  consecrated  nun,"  interjected  the  abbot. 
"  And  yet  a  woman  beloved,  —  say  not  a  word  against 
her  !  "  and  the  eyes  of  Vian  were  aflame. 

In  less  than  an  hour  the  Abbot  of  Glastonbury,  accom- 
panied by  the  splendid  train  which  reflected  the  last 
gleams  of  mediaeval  monasticism  as  its  sun  sank  out  of 
sight,  was  riding  with  Vian  on  the  Mynchin  Buck- 

land  Priory,  Somerset. 

Old  Bathpole  Road  was  lined  with  flowers  as  it  ran 
under  Creechbury  Hill  and  toward  the  fields  of  the  priory. 
Stoke  and  Orchard  lay  broadly  lu^kini;  in  the  filmy  gold 
which  fell  out  of  the  sky  upon  them  ;  and  the  long 
ows  which  alternated  with  the  sunlight  upon  the  ample 
meadows  of  Blackdown  were  still  the  shadows  of  a  most 
beautiful  morning.  The  demesne  pon  ippk-d  by 

the  soft  winds,  whose  bosoms  were  filled  with  fragrances, 
as  they  came  like  tender  messengers  over  the  fields  of 
Staple  and  Neroche,  sighing  themselves  into  whispers  when 
they  came  close  to  the  buildings  of  the  House  of  Sisters. 

"  A  noble  history,"  observed  the  abbot,  with  pathos,  as 
he  began  to  tell  Vian  of  the  unique  character  of  the  in- 
stitution, the  Order  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem,  the  precep- 
tory  which  was  the  finest  example  in  all  Knglaml  of  a 
hospitaller's  commandery;  adding  that  this  was  the  only 
community  of  women  which  the  order  possessed,  and  that 
it  had  had  but  one  prior. 

But  Vian  cared  little  about  Walter  Prior,  who  had  been 
dead  for  nearly  four  centuries ;  or  Fina,  who  had  departed 
this  life  in  1240;  or  the  difficulties  of  the  preceptor  and 
prioress  thirty  years  later.  As  Yian  looked  upon  that 
never-failing  source  of  revenue,  the  dove-cot,  his  mind 
went  to  Ami,  whose  love  had  as  many  wings  of  hope  as 
then  troubled  the  odorous  air. 

The  abbot  and  Vian  halted  near  the  north  side  of  the 
great  church,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  picturesque 


DELIVERANCE  AND  LOVE.  333 

group  of  buildings.  A  couple  of  sisters  had  just  fetched 
some  firewood  from  the  adjoining  park,  which  Vian  had 
noticed  was  full  of  deer. 

"  So  ill  used  are  these  sisters  !  "   remarked  the  abbot. 

"  They  appear  to  be  more  industrious  than  monks," 
replied  Vian,  with  acidity. 

The  plinth  mouldings,  monuments,  fragments  of  oaken 
wainscot,  incised  slabs,  Lombardic  crosses,  altar-cloths, 
chalices,  and  copes,  which  even  now  are  to  be  found 
in  old  buildings  in  Blackdown,  Durslon,  Staple,  and  West 
Monkton,  were  then  all  in  place,  helping  to  constitute  the 
beauty  of  Mynchin  Buckland.  But  Vian  knew  that  the 
hour  of  their  great  significance  had  passed. 

The  abbot  had  introduced  him.  Vian  had  exhibited 
his  letters  of  authorization ;  and  with  several  officers  who 
remained  in  the  guest-room,  he  advised  the  abbot  that 
he  wished  to  be  left  at  the  priory,  and  instructed  the 
prioress  that  he  should  demand  that  no  pious  service 
should  go  unperformed,  and  indeed  that  he  should  be 
allowed  to  inspect  the  house,  without  a  single  hint  being 
given  to  any  of  the  object  of  his  search. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  festival  of  Saint  Mary,  and  two 
virgins  were  to  be  consecrated.  Greatly  to  the  annoyance 
and  godly  sorrow  of  the  prioress,  Vian  demanded  to  be 
admitted  after  the  introit  of  the  Mass  and  Collect.  The 
Epistle  had  not  been  read.  Two  virgins  stood  before  the 
altar,  each  clothed  in  white,  and  each  holding  in  one 
hand  a  taper,  in  the  other  the  sacred  habit.  The  bishop, 
who  recognized  Vian  at  once  as  the  representative  of 
Thomas  Cromwell,  trembled,  as  Vian  turned  his  eyes  away 
from  him,  and  the  virgins  laid  their  habits  at  his  feet. 
The  bishop  then  blessed  each  habit. 

"  Receive,  damsel,  this  cloke,  which  thou  mayest  bear 
without  spot  before  the  judgment- seat  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  to  whom  every  knee  doth  bow,  of  things  in 
heaven,  and  things  on  earth,  and  things  under  the  earth, 


334  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

who,  with  the  Father  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  liveth  and 
reigneth  God,  world  without  end,  Amen  !  "  This  said 
the  bishop  to  each  one,  after  he  had  sprinkled  the  vest- 
ments with  holy  water.  The  Epistle  and  Mass  followed. 
The  virgins  retired. 

Vian's  eye  searched  every  face.  Years  had  gone  since 
he  looked  into  her  face,  as  he  lifted  her  from  beneath  the 
overshadowing  peril  on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold."  Still  he  was  confident  that  a  single  look  would 
not  fail  to  discover  her  whom  he  sought. 

The  virgins  returned,  attired  in  the  habits  which  had 
been  blessed,  each  wearing  the  ring  and  veil  which  had 
been  placed  upon  the  altar,  and  bearing  the  paper  of 
profession.  They  stood  within  the  gate  of  the  choir, 
each  with  the  lighted  taper  in  the  right  han  1.  In  most 
delicious  harmony  these  sentiments  floated  forth  from 
their  lips  in  the  Latin  words  :  "  I  love  ( 'hrist,  into  whose 
chamber  I  have  entered,  whose  mother  is  a  Virgin, 
whose  father  knew  not  woman  ;  whose  instrument- 
to  me  with  measured  voices,  whom,  when  I  shall  have 
loved,  I  am  chaste;  when  I  shall  have  touched.  I  am 
clean ;  when  I  shall  have  received,  I  am  a  Virgin.  Honey 
and  milk  from  his  mouth  I  have  taken,  and  his  blood 
hath  adorned  my  cheeks." 

"  Come  !  come  !  come  !  "  said  the  bishop. 

"  Ye  daughters,  hearken  unto  me  !  I  will  teach  you  the 
fear  of  the  Lord.  Alleluia  !  "  responded  the  choir. 

The  virgins  advanced.  The  antiphon  concluded.  They 
bowed  to  the  ground,  and  then  rose,  singing,  "  And  now 
we  follow  from  our  whole  heart,  and  we  fear  Thee." 

"  Come  !  come  !  come  !  "  said  the  bishop. 

"  Ye  daughters,  hearken  unto  me  !  I  will  teach  you  the 
fear  of  the  Lord.  Alleluia  !  "  responded  the  choir. 

Again  the  virgins  advanced ;  again  they  bowed  them- 
selves ;  again  they  rose,  singing,  "  And  now  we  follow 
from  our  whole  heart,  and  we  fear  Thee." 


DELIVERANCE  AND  LOVE:  335 

"  Come  !  come  !  come  !  "  again  said  the  bishop. 

The  virgins  advanced. 

"  Ye  daughters,  hearken  unto  me  !  I  will  teach  you  the 
fear  of  the  Lord.  Alleluia  !  "  responded  the  choir,  out  of 
whose  harmony  two  voices  lifted  the  strain,  "  Come  unto 
Him  and  be  enlightened,  and  your  faces  shall  not  be 
confounded." 

"  Ye  daughters,  hearken  unto  me  !  I  will  teach  you  the 
fear  of  the  Lord.  Alleluia  !  " 

Vian  thought  he  had  never  heard  such  music,  save 
once  in  the  mountains  near  La  Torre. 

The  white-robed  pair  advanced,  singing,  "  And  we 
follow  Thee  with  our  whole  heart,  and  fear  Thee,  and 
we  seek  Thy  face.  O  Lord,  confound  us  not,  but  do 
unto  us  according  to  Thy  loving- kindness,  and  according 
to  the  multitude  of  Thy  mercy." 

The  bishop  prostrated  himself,  with  his  face  toward 
the  altar.  His  attendants  did  likewise,  while  the  seven 
Psalms  were  being  said,  and  the  virgins  were  prostrate. 
Two  clerks  sang  the  Litany,  and  the  choir  responded. 
On  reaching  the  verse  appointed  for  the  bishop,  he  rose 
and  looking  upon  the  virgins,  said,  — 

"That  it  may  please  thee  to  bless  and  preserve  our 
sisters  in  true  religion." 

"  We  beseech  Thee,"  responded  the  choir. 

Vian's  eye  was  just  then  attracted  to  the  form  of  one 
of  the  attending  sisters  whose  face  bore  signs  of  intense 
suffering.  Behind  the  anguish  which  still  struggled 
there  with  the  emotions  which  the  scene  and  the  music 
produced,  there  was  a  certain  fadeless  beauty. 

The  Litany  was  concluded ;  the  bishop  sang  "  Veni 
Creator  Spiritus,"  and  the  choir  responded.  One  of  the 
virgins  advanced  and  made  her  profession.  After  she  had 
made  the  sign  'of  the  cross,  the  other  virgin  did  likewise 
profess. 

Vian's  attention  was  again  directed  toward  the  woman 


336  MONK  AND   KNIGHT. 

whose  eyes  were  now  full  of  tears.     He  «  they 

were  black  eyes,  tender  and  brilliant  within  all  her 
She  was  soon  standing  near  unto  one  of  the  virgins  who 
had  been  consecrated.    As  the  virgin  on  the  right  handed 
her  the   taper  before   receiving   her   veil,   Vian    found 
himself  upon  his  feet. 

"I  will  at  least  avoid  a  disturbance  at  this  moment," 
reasoned  he,  with  a  heart  which  beat  as  unrestrainedly 
as  did  hers. 

The  face  turned  toward  him.  The  eyes  of  dark  splen- 
dor glanced  once  upon  Vian's  hesitation.  He  was  back 
again  in  the  dust-cloud  on  the  "  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold."  It  was  Astre"e. 

Vian  did  not  remain  to  behold  the  rest  of  the  solemn 
ceremony.  Arriving  at  the  guest-room,  he  gave  com- 
mands to  his  officers  and  awaited  the  coming  of  the 
prioress. 

"  I  would  see  at  once  the  sister  who  received  the 
taper  from  the  virgin  who  stood  on  the  right  of  the 
bishop,"  said  he  to  the  prioress  Katerine  Bourgcher,  at 
the  instant  of  her  appearance. 

"Alas!  "cried  she. 

"Yes ;  Sister  Emelie  —  Astr6e  !  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  name  ?  "  inquired  the  haughty 
lady. 

"It  matters  not."  Vian  produced  his  Majesty's 
authorization. 

"  I  have  beheld  that  great  seal  and  papers  with  the 
name  of —  " 

Vian  cut  through  the  dignity  of  the  prioress  with  the 
words,  "  I  would  behold  the  sister  I  have  named,  and 
at  once  !  " 

"This  begins  the  end,"  remarked  the  prioress,  in 
accents  of  lamentation. 

"Yes,"  said  Vian,  " you  have  probably  witnessed  the 
last  consecration  of  virgins  within  these  walls." 


DELIVERANCE  AND  LOVE, 


337 


"  I  spurn  your  prophecies ;  but  I  shall  obey  your  most 
unrighteous  demands." 

"  No  parley  here  !  "  said  Vian,  as  he  advanced  to  speak 
to  the  officers.  "  I  would  speak  to  her  immediately." 

Soon  Vian  was  seated  in  the  apartment  of  the  prioress. 
The  door  was  opened ;  the  prioress  entered,  retired,  and 
at  once  the  eyes  of  Vian  fixed  themselves  upon  another 
form. 

"The  monk  Vian  !  "  cried  Astre"e,  as  the  old  words  of 
her  lover  Ami  came  back  to  associate  themselves  swiftly 
with  the  man  who  stood  before  her.  "  Deliver  me 
from  terrors  viler  and  more  cruel  than  death,  O  Vian, 
who  once  delivered  me  from  death  itself!  " 

The  prioress  entered  in  time  to  see  her  fall  into  the 
arms  of  Vian. 

"  For  shame,  for  shame  !  I  have  always  known  your 
unfaithful  heart,"  shouted  the  indignant  prioress. 

"  The  monk  Vian  !  "  sighed  Astree,  as  she  revived,  and 
Ami's  words  rushed  back  to  her  soul. 

"  And  a  monk,  then  ?  You  are  a  monk  !  Oh,  abomi- 
nation of  desolation,  my  house  is  scandalized  !  "  shrieked 
Katerine  Bourgcher,  as  she  grasped  her  keys. 

"  Touch  not  this  lady  !  Hear  me  !  touch  her  not !  " 
commanded  Vian. 

"  I  will  not  even  behold  such  an  unseemly  spectacle. 
Avaunt,  monk  and  nun  !  "  hissed  the  prioress,  in  the 
name  of  her  ritualistic  virtue.  But  only  the  prioress 
retired  from  the  room,  adding,  in  muttering  tones,  "  This 
is  he  whom  she  has  loved  more  than  her  Lord.  Oh,  the 
foul  one  !  " 

"Astre"e!"  said  he,  with  tender  truthfulness  in  each 
tone. 

"  Vian ! "  answered  the  nun,  as  she  gathered  her 
thoughts  into  one. 

"  The  whole  story  is  told.  I  can  tell  you  mine,  —  you 
will  hear  it  as  we  journey  along.  You  are  wretched  here  ?  " 
VOL.  n.  —  22 


338  MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 

"  I  am." 

"  Because  you  love  —  " 

"  The  memory  of  the  knight  Ami.  You  —  oh,  Vian, 
you  forgave  him?" 

"  The  prioress  believes  that  I  am  he  whom  you  still 
love." 

"  Certainly ;  but  I  —  " 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  Astree.  I  am  only  the  special  com- 
missioner of  his  Majesty  Henry  VIII.  I  am  come  to 
deliver  you." 

"  Merciful  Jesu  !  and  God  bless  you  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  kissed  Vian's  hands. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  more,  until  —  But  you  are  safe  with 
me  ;  and  —  Officers  are  waiting  my  command.  I  will  tell 
you  all.  Make  yourself  ready  to  depart." 

Vian  called  for  the  prioress,  who  was  irritable  and 
sullenly  silent.  He  commanded  her  to  make  Astrcc's 
comfort  sure  in  the  prospect  of  a  long  ride. 

Before  that  day's  sun  had  lit  the  edges  of  Creechbury 
Hill,  Astre"e  was  riding  with  one  of  the  officers  who  had 
come  from  London,  by  way  of  Glastonbury,  with  Vian. 
They  rode  together  alone  in  the  soft  evening  light. 
Vian  had  permitted  them  to  loiter  somewhat  behind  his 
cavalcade ;  for  that  officer  was  Ami. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

THE    END. 

"  Rest  comes  at  length,  though  life  be  long  and  dreary ; 
The  day  must  dawn,  and  darksome  night  be  passed  ; 
All  journeys  end  with  welcome  to  the  weary, 
And  heaven  —  the  heart's  true  home  — will  come  at  last." 

T  TNIMPORTANT  is  every  life,  however  endowed  or 
\J  compassed  with  privileges,  until  it  passes  into  the 
service  of  important  truth.  Important  as  the  infinite 
harvests  which  may  be  garnered  from  the  triumph  of  any 
truth  in  men's  hearts,  does  the  least  subtle,  the  least 
natively  great  life  become  the  moment  it  has  passed 
out  of  itself,  and,  through  submission,  into  the  use  of 
organizing  ideas. 

A  surpassing  importance  had  entered  the  lives  of  Ami 
and  Vian.  The  one  had  been  freed  from  narrowing 
jealousies,  because  he  had  been  captured  by  an  all- 
dominating  love ;  the  other's  mind  had  been  emanci- 
pated from  conventional  limitations,  because  he  had 
realized  in  a  reasonable  service  the  law  of  spiritual  and 
intellectual  liberty. 

When  at  length  they  sat  with  Astre"e  and  Alke  by  the 
side  of  the  dust  of  Caspar  Perrin,  who  two  days  before 
had  suddenly  expired  in  the  printing- room,  they  found 
the  secret  of  power  in  the  world.  The  mellow  twilight 
was  drifting  into  the  apartment,  and  falling  upon  the  face 


340 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT. 


of  the  dead  and  upon  the  first  copies  of  the  English 
Bible,  whose  appearance  marked  the  beginning  of  an 
era  for  the  word  of  God  and  the  English  people. 

"  He  was  not  a  great  man,  yet  his  life  had  greatness 
in  it,"  said  Alke,  reflectively,  as  she  looked  again  upon 
the  face  and  then  into  the  red  West. 

"  Only  a  printer  in  Venice,  a  believer  in  God's  justice 
and  truth,  trusting  his  life  to  his  faith  ;  a  stainless  radical, 
intent  on  finding  and  sen-ing  — 

"  Intent  on  serving  great  truths,  which  always  impart 
their  greatness  to  him  who  serves  them."  Vian  had 
rescued  Alke's  tremulous  sentence  from  ending  in  tears ; 
and  now  she  placed  her  hands  gratefully  in  his. 

"  Truly  !  "  said  the  beautiful  Astree,  seeking  to  console 
Ami,  whose  eye  often  found  the  white  scar  on  the  brown 
wrist  now  so  motionless,  "  that  is  the  greatness  which 
makes  his  dust  seem  finer  and  more  precious  than  that 
of  Bayard.  Bayard  was  the  greatest  in  the  annals  of  the 
old  knighthood.  Our  father  may  be  only  one  of  the 
noblest  in  the  annals  of  the  new  knighthood.  It  is  with 
what  seems  greatest  as  it  was  aforetime,  — '  the  least  in 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  greater  than  he.'  " 

Ami  and  Vian  had  both  been  made  ambitious  to  in- 
fluence the  world's  history.  The  most  eminent  wor- 
shippers at  the  shrines  of  glory  had  taught  them  this 
aspiration  and  its  language.  Each  had  oftentimes  found 
himself  upon  tossing  seas,  which  made  him  only  an  inci- 
dent amid  the  surge  and  foam  hurled  hither  and  thither 
by  resistless  power. 

Had  they  failed  to  make  their  lives  tell  upon  the 
future  ? 

In  the  battles  of  kings  and  cardinals,  scholars  and 
popes,  in  the  swirl  of  the  Reforming  movement,  each  had, 
in  some  measure,  kept  his  personality  sacred.  In  the 
separate  contest  between  the  man  and  his  circumstances, 
each  had  felt  himself  causative  and  free. 


THE  END.  341 

As  near  that  calm  sweet  face  —  the  face  of  an  old 
man  upon  which  rested  the  fadeless  dawn  of  youth  — 
they  stood  together,  the  awful  oceantide  which  they  had 
known  came  rushing  in  and  told  its  tale.  This  completed 
career  held  the  open  secret  of  sovereignty.  It  had  a 
greatness  unto  which  no  Abbot  Richard  of  Glastonbury 
or  Francis  I.  could  approach.  Caspar  Perrin  was  forever 
sure  to  have  the  regency  which  is  obtained  by  loyalty  to 
regent  ideas. 

Still  would  they  ride  upon  these  waves.  Perhaps  as 
drops  of  oil  thrown  out,  they  had,  at  Amboise  and  Paris, 
Glastonbury  and  Whitehall,  made  it  possible  for  great 
waves  to  slip  over  each  other  so  as  to  prevent  a  chaos 
more  disastrous.  Even  yet  wisdom  and  truth  were  in- 
exhaustible. They  had  positions  at  court ;  and  their 
relations  to  the  Reformers  would  enable  them  to  wield 
an  influence  to  be  measured  only  by  the  magnitude  of 
the  ideas  which  should  rule  them. 

Softly  and  prayerfully  did  Astr£e  and  Alke  find  their 
way  amid  the  melancholy  duties. 

Ami  sat  reading  the  gospel  of  purity.  His  thirst  for 
purity  had  carried  him  into  the  Reformation.  He  was 
reading  it  from  the  flowers  which  Vian,  only  the  day 
before,  had  plucked  from  the  Glastonbury  Thorn,  which 
for  a  week  had  been  in  full  bloom.  Astree,  who  inter- 
preted his  mind,  placed  a  single  stainless  blossom  within 
the  cold  grasp  of  Caspar  Perrin. 

Vian  had  been  musing.  He  held  the  first  copy  of  the 
English  Bible  in  his  hand.  Only  a  short  time  ago  Tyn- 
dale  had  been  burned.  Now  the  presses  labored  inces- 
santly to  bury  from  men's  remembrance  the  hideous 
crime.  By  the  favor  of  God  the  old  Waldensian  —  the 
friend  of  Aldus  —  had  been  permitted  to  have  his  part 
in  the  new  triumph.  Vian's  spiritual  position  had  come 
to  him  by  loyalty  to  that  impulse  generated  within  his 
bosom  by  the  sight  of  the  unchained  Word  of  God. 


342  MONK  AND  KNIGHT, 

Alke,  who  knew  his  soul,  asked  for  the  fresh  volume  ;  and 
soon  with  the  blossom  from  Glastonbury  Thorn,  the  dead 
hand  rested  upon  the  printed  Bible. 

"  Oh,  deathless  soul ! "  said  Vian,  as  he  looked  again 
upon  the  transfigured  face,  "  with  purity  of  life  and  with 
the  gospel  of  Christ,  thou  hast  conquered  ! " 


THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  la^t  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


<5fiH*1U 

NOV  1  1  1958  L 

I 

9Nov'60BM 

NOV  14 


*T 


_ 

«\PK  3  r  19S^ 

LD21A-50m-9/58                                  .    .G*0""1  J-jbrary 
I  nivemtypf  Californ.a 

ID 


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